


Coming Undone

by purplesunsets



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Gore, Dubious Morality, Friends to Lovers, Gunplay, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Possessiveness, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide, Unreliable Narrator, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26870326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplesunsets/pseuds/purplesunsets
Summary: Clay’s fingers are slick with a thick dark liquid and his gun is missing from its holster.“George.” He whispers, knife falling to the ground.“Get away from me.” George sobs as he presses his back against the wall.“I’m sorry.” Clay says softly, and grips George’s collar with a white knuckled grip.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 902
Kudos: 3776





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Coming Undone by Korn

“How’d Clay finally get you to do it?” Wilbur asks while his avatar punches a tree on the screen.

“Do what? Visit him?” George furrows his brow, facing Wilbur in-game. 

“Yeah, Florida is more than just a hop across the pond, y’know.”

“It’s only for two weeks. Plus, he’s paying for my plane ticket, so why wouldn’t I go?” George shrugs.

“He’s literally your sugar daddy.” 

“No, he’s not. This is just business.” George protests weakly. “We’re going to record videos and stuff. Maybe we’ll film an actual vlog this time.”

“Just business, huh?” Wilbur smirks.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Wilbur flashes him a shit-eating grin and George decides it’s time to leave the game.

“Whatever. I need to start packing, anyway.”

“You’re only starting _now?_ Your flight is in like three hours.” 

_“Five_ hours.”

Wilbur laughs and rolls his eyes. “Bye, George. Travel safely.”

“Thanks. I’ll text you later.” George waves and ends the call. 

His suitcase is face up on his floor. It’s empty save for a bottle of Listerine that is probably too large to get past security without drawing suspicion. 

_(Nothing to see here, sir! Just fighting_ _gum disease one swish at a time.)_

He has a lot of work to do.

—

“Did you hear about the killer on the loose?” Clay asks calmly while they walk through Disney together.

“The _what?”_ George chokes on his overpriced Dasani. 

Clay claps him on the back until he can breathe again. “I’m guessing you haven’t heard.”

“No shit.” George roughly scrubs at his eyes which are watery from almost drowning on mediocre bottled water. 

“The media has a stupid name for him—the Florida Fiend, I think.” Clay chuckles lowly. “They could’ve at least tried to be creative.”

Clay glances conspiratorially over his shoulder before saying in a hushed voice, “But rumor has it that there’s actually a network of them. Scary stuff, right?”

“Yeah. Scary.” George echoes. They pass Mickey Mouse, who waves at them, but George can barely manage a grimace in response. “Not that this isn’t incredibly interesting, but why are you bringing this up now? We’re in The Happiest Place on Earth and murder isn’t exactly Mickey-approved.”

Clay shrugs. “I don’t know, I just figured it would be good to warn you sooner rather than later.” 

“Why? You think that he’s going to kill me, or something?” George scoffs.

“No. Of course not.” There’s something cold and steely in Clay’s voice. “You’re safe with me.”

“My knight in shining armor.” George says dryly and bumps Clay with his shoulder. “Come on, the park is closing soon and I haven’t even bought mouse ears yet.”

“I’ll pay if you get the rainbow sequin ones.” Clay smirks.

“As if.” George says, but then checks the tag of a random pair. “Thirty dollars? For what?”

“My offer still stands.” 

“I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me or making fun of my color blindness. But free is free, so I’ll take it.”

Clay grins and hands him his credit card.

“You look cute.” Clay tells him once they’re on the freeway.

“Because of the ears?”

“Sure.” Clay answers easily.

George rolls his eyes, but can’t help to smile.

A few minutes of comfortable silence pass between them, until Clay asks, “You trust me, right?”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re my best friend. I’m literally sleeping in your house for the next two weeks. Of course I trust you.” George turns to look at Clay. In the glow of sunset, he can barely make out his features. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Thanks for saying that, though.” Clay smiles softly. “I trust you, too, you know. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Wow.” George blinks.

“Too deep?” Clay laughs sheepishly.

“Maybe for a Tuesday.” 

Clay snorts. “Alright.”

Another hour passes until they drive down an exit ramp and onto a narrow road that at some points is so overgrown that George is certain that they’re lost. Soon enough, though, the road widens as branches retreat back into the brush. They turn onto a long gravel driveway that leads to a sleek modern home which doesn’t at all match the landscape.

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to live in the woods.” George says when they step out of the car.

“Cell service is kind of shitty but it’s worth it to me. I like my privacy. Plus, the land is cheap out here.” 

“Makes sense.” George mutters, glancing suspiciously at a bush that rustles when he walks past.

Clay huffs a laugh and opens the door. “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour or whatever.”

The interior of the house is spacious and filled with furniture, but there’s something about the marble floors and sparsely decorated walls that is mildly unsettling. George wonders if the architect took inspiration from an insane asylum.

“And here’s where you’ll be staying.” Clay opens the door to a plain guest room. George half expects for the walls to be padded or for there to be a straight jacket waiting for him on the bed.

“Awesome, thanks.” George slides his duffel off his shoulder. “I’m exhausted. I think Disney after a ten hour flight was a bit much.”

“Didn’t you have more luggage?”

“Yeah, I forgot it in the car. It’s fine, I’ll just get it in the morning.” George flops down on the mattress and lets his eyes close.

“No, I’ll just grab it for you now.” 

“It’s late, you shouldn’t go out by yourself.” George sits up and groggily stands. “Didn't you mention that there’s a killer on the loose?”

“You shouldn’t worry about me.” Clay chuckles humorlessly. “I have a great security system and I carry—just a precaution.”

“Carry.” George repeats.

“Firearms. The animals aren’t the friendliest out here.” 

“Right.” George feels like a bucket of ice water has been poured over his head.

“I haven’t had to shoot an animal in years—just racists—if it makes you feel better.” Clay huffs a laugh before sobering. “I’m joking. But if you’re still nervous you can come with me to the car.” 

George nods.

Moonlight casts an erie sheen over the front lawn and the woods look dark and dangerous. It makes George’s skin crawl and he immediately regrets not just staying in his room.

“Alright, mission accomplished or whatever. Let’s head back in.” Clay effortlessly hefts the suitcase onto his shoulder and slams the trunk shut.

“Just let me roll it, it’s heavy.” 

“Maybe to you it is.” Clay says, but sets the suitcase down once they get back inside. 

“Hey, I’m strong.” George protests. 

“Sure you are.” Clay says placatingly. 

“Whatever.” 

“I have some work to do, so I’ll be up a bit longer. But I know you’re tired, so you should head to bed.” Clay says. 

George is probably just sensitive because he’s sleep deprived, but something about how Clay speaks feels like an order. 

“Goodnight, Clay.” George mumbles.

“Night.” Clay replies before disappearing down a dimly lit hallway.

George rolls his suitcase over a gray rug that he doesn’t remember seeing when Clay had led him to his room before. He walks several feet further down the hallway before he realizes he’s in the wrong place, and turns to head back where he came from. 

Dumbly, he comes to an abrupt halt. A security camera stares back at him. It’s hidden cleverly in a corner but is still positioned so that it can see everything. George has never seen cameras _inside_ a house before. Perhaps it’s an American thing. 

Briefly, he wonders if Clay is watching him, but immediately dismisses the idea. That would be ridiculous. And yet he can’t shake the feeling that eyes are on him.

He tosses and turns all night. He can’t fall asleep, even though he’s dead tired and knows that he’s being stupid.

He just hopes that there aren’t any cameras hidden in his room.

—

George sleeps for about thirty minutes throughout the entire night and wants nothing more than to stay in bed, but he knows that Clay has a day planned for them, so he forces himself into a mediocre outfit and into the kitchen.

The sight that greets him is one he never thought he’d see. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Push-ups.” Clay replies as if that explains anything.

“On the counter? At nine in the morning?” George asks incredulously. “You have a bikini competition coming up that you didn’t tell me about?”

“Never a bad time to get in some cardio.” Clay gets off the counter and motions for George to come over to the stove. “Plus, I didn’t know how long you’d be.”

“Fair enough.” George shrugs, he’s in no place to judge. “Do you want to stream later or something? If we do a face cam maybe you could put a bag on your head if you want.”

“Sure. I actually have some masks in my garage that I could wear.” Clay says casually, as if everyone owns an assortment of disguises. “Anyway, I’m getting off topic. What do you want to eat?”

“I’m good with anything.” George answers.

“I can make a decent omelette, so I was thinking that. Actually can you check the date on the pancake mix? I’ll check the eggs, and we’ll just make whatever’s expiring sooner.” 

“Always so tactical.” George mutters to himself. 

“It’s in the cabinet above the microwave, top shelf, by the way.” Clay calls from halfway in the fridge.

“Got it.” George opens the cabinet and it’s exactly where Clay said. Except he can’t reach it. 

_Fuck._

George has one foot on the counter when he feels Clay come up behind him and reach over him. A torso, that is far too muscular for someone that is supposed to play video games for a living, presses into his back. As Clay leans over him, George suddenly feels very small and fragile.

“Shortie.” Clay teases. “I can’t believe I let you give me grief for pushups on the counter when you were about to climb my cabinets like a fucking spider monkey.”

“I had it covered.” George tries not to sound too defensive. 

_“Right.”_ Clay laughs, but his expression is hard. “But really, though, if you need help with something, just ask me. I’m serious.” 

“Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” George scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. Since he’s gotten here, Clay’s intensity has come in unexpected bouts, and it gives George whiplash every time. 

But it’s probably just the fatigue talking. 

“I have some ideas for today.” Clay tells him after breakfast, once they’re in the car. “I was thinking we’d start with mini golf at the beach and then maybe go swimming or something.”

“Clay. I literally didn’t bring swim trunks or anything.” George complains. 

“I know, but there’s like a bunch of stores on the boardwalk. I’m sure they’ll have something. My treat.” Clay smirks.

“You need to stop buying me things. People think you’re my sugar daddy.” George says, even though he doesn’t really mean it, because he likes free stuff. 

“Nah. They’re just jealous because everyone knows you’re my favorite.” Clay shrugs nonchalantly.

“Don’t say stuff like that.” George mutters and turns away so that Clay can’t see him blush.

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“I just don’t want to take advantage of your generosity.” 

“You’re not. I like buying you things, so just let me take care of you.” 

“Shut up.” George swats at Clay’s arm. “You can’t say stuff like that. It’s embarrassing.” 

“Why? Because it makes you blush?” Clay laughs, but George can see the faint flush blossoming on his cheeks. “Is little Georgie-poo blushing?”

George doesn’t have anything smart or witty to say, so he resorts to the tried and true, “I don't know what you’re talking about.”

After a game of mini golf that Clay obliterates him in, he ends up getting a pair of plain blue swim trunks and matching flip flops. He films some of it, but he knows most of it will never make it off his SD card.

They dump their stuff under one of the umbrellas dotted along the shore, and Clay wastes no time in whipping his shirt off.

His swim trunks hang low on his hips and George can’t help but let his eyes wander. Clay is broad and tan where George is small and pale. 

“Like the view?” Clay winks salaciously and does a stupid bodybuilder-like pose.

“Why do you have muscles?” George blurts out.

Clay narrows his eyes. “Because I work out?” 

“Right. Dumb question, sorry.” George glances down at his own body and crosses his arms self consciously.

“Stop. You look good.” 

“Shut up.”

“What, is that your catchphrase now?” 

“No.” George mutters. “You look good, too.”

“What was that?” Clay grins at him slyly. “Don’t think I quite caught that.”

“You’re the worst.”

“But you love me.”

“Unfortunately.” George sighs.

“Come on, we’ve been at the beach for an hour and haven’t even touched the water.” Clay pulls him toward the crashing waves. George is thankful for the distraction so he doesn’t have to dwell on if that was flirting or not.

The water is choppy, enough that George has to hang onto Clay at some points. Not because he wants to be close to Clay or anything. That would just be weird.

—

When George wakes up the next morning, he feels worlds better from the day before. Probably because he finally got some sleep. 

When he goes out to the kitchen, Clay isn’t there. George is about to text him when he spots Clay sitting on the patio outside the kitchen. George steps through the glass doors and plops down next to Clay. 

“Wait, what are you doing!?” George immediately jumps back up.

“Cleaning my gun. I’m going to oil it, too, unless you want to try.” Clay replies casually as if he isn’t holding a lethal weapon.

“No! No, I don’t want to oil your gun. Why do you even have it out? You said you hadn’t needed to shoot any animals lately.” George digs his nails into the palms of his hands.

“Relax. I was just doing some target practice in the woods last night.” Clay holds up a pair of shoes that look worse for wear. “It’s fine if you don’t want to help with my gun, but could you bring the hose over? I can’t even see my actual work boots behind all this mud.”

“Sure.” George answers quickly, desperate to get away even just for a moment. 

When George returns with the hose, the gun is sitting on the ground beside Clay’s hip, while he chips away at the crud on his boots with a screwdriver, not unlike a paleontologist removing the crusty bits from a fossil.

Reluctantly, George sits next to Clay, the gun between them.

“You keep looking at it. Why? It’s not just going to shoot you. The safety is on and everything.” Clay sets down his boots and turns to face George.

“I don’t know.” George stares at his feet.

“Is it me then? Are you afraid I’m going to hurt you?” Clay asks, voice quiet but dangerous.

George forces himself to meet Clay’s eyes. “No. I trust you. You know that.”

“I do.” Clay picks up the gun and flips the safety off before handing it to George. He adjusts George’s hands so that the gun rests just below his mandibular. 

George can feel Clay’s Adams Apple move when he swallows. It feels oddly intimate.

“Shoot me.” Clay tells him. George is frozen, like a deer in headlights. 

“What are you doing?” George tries not to seem like he’s freaking out. Or at the very least, not shit himself.

“Shoot me.” Clay repeats, voice stern.

It feels like days pass before Clay finally says, “Exactly. You can’t.”

“Of course I wouldn’t shoot you.” George whispers breathlessly.

“See, that’s why I trust you. And you trust me. So, why are you still scared?”

“I know you would never hurt me.” George lets Clay take the pistol back. “It’s just terrifying, that something so small has the power to take a life away. It just doesn’t seem like a choice that a human should be able to make.”

“There’s a lot of choices humans shouldn’t be able to make.” Clay purses his lips. “Come on, I’ll teach you how to shoot it.”

“You don’t have to.” George says nervously.

“I want to. It’s a good skill to have, and I think it’ll take away some of your fear about guns too.”

Clay is tall and sturdy as he leans over George and holds his hands together, murmuring directions. Despite the weapon in his hands, George feels safe. He feels protected. 

“Pull it.” Clay whispers, warm breath tickling the shell of George’s ear, chest rumbling against George’s back when he speaks. 

In the distance, the bullet clips a tree, taking off some of the bark.

“Good boy.” Clay smirks. “See, nothing to be afraid of.” 

“Yeah.” George exhales. He’s shaking at the knees, so he flips the safety back on and hands the gun to Clay, before he can do something stupid, like shoot himself in the foot. He sits down, because electricity is dancing across his skin in a way that feels both euphoric and horrible.

“How was it?”

“Intense.” George replies shakily, wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans. 

“It always is.” Clay says knowingly. “It made you feel strong, right? Isn’t it great?”

“Okay, mister second amendment.” George teases, needing to shake how exposed he feels. He can’t stop thinking about Clay towering over him, large hands enveloping his own, the intoxicating smell of gunpowder clinging to Clay’s skin, the gun in his own hands. 

“You didn’t answer me. Didn’t you like it?” Clay repeats gently.

“Yeah.” George mumbles, because he doesn’t want to admit it. Because he hates that he liked it. 

—

George wakes up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. Images of the gun linger in his mind, Clay running its cool metal down his spine, the weight of the barrel on his tongue. He feels both powerful and helpless: simultaneously the prey and the predator, tantalizingly stuck on the edge of fear and ecstasy. He ignores the way his boxers are slick against his skin and how heat is pooling in the pit of his stomach. 

The sheets cling to George’s legs as he peels them away. He makes his way to the bathroom and turns on the shower as cold as it goes. His skin is flushed and hot to the touch even as the water rains down on him. 

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the cool tiles, his breathing is hard and erratic. The bitter flavor of nausea builds at the back of his throat. 

What the fuck is wrong with him?

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Soft shadows flicker across the wall as the fireplace crackles and sparks. It’s cold— _for Florida._ George doesn’t have the heart to tell Clay that in England weather like this is considered balmy.

The flame warms the room and makes it feel more like a home, less sterile. George has his feet in Clay’s lap, while Patches lounges on the back of the couch. Ever so often her tail will flick George’s nose as if to say, ‘Know your place, bitch.’

Suddenly, the tennis match on screen is replaced by a breaking news segment, reporting on a tropical storm approaching the eastern side of the state. On the predicted map, it doesn’t look like it will affect areas other than ones directly on the coast, and they’re far enough inland that it’ll probably be fine.

“Can you step on me?” Clay’s voice jolts George out of his thoughts.

“What?” George asks, because he had to have heard that wrong.

“I picked up something heavy last night and think I pulled something in my back.” Clay explains before laying face down on the floor. “I want you to basically realign my spine.”

“I can’t _stand_ on you. I’m not a chiropractor. I’m going to break you or something.” 

“I trust you.”

“This isn’t a matter of trust, Clay.”

“I trust… that you won’t break me.”

“I don’t.” George scoffs.

“Come on, you weigh like half of me, you won’t crush me.” Clay insists. “I’ll even pay you if you want, just get on me.”

“That’s what she said.” George mutters even though it doesn’t really make sense. With a grimace, he remembers that the nearest hospital is at least five miles away and prays he doesn’t smush Clay’s spleen.

“Ew, why are you so squishy?” George wrinkles his nose.

“I’m not squishy.” Clay grits out as George moves his feet as though he’s mashing grapes. “I’m two hundred pounds of pure muscle.”

Suddenly, Clay’s back cracks impossibly loud and George is certain that he’s just paralyzed him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” George pulls Clay to his feet and gives him a once-over at an arms length. “I’m _this_ close to calling an ambulance.”

“That felt good. Thanks.” Clay replies as he rolls his neck. 

“Masochist.” George mutters.

Clay says something under his breath that George can’t quite make out, but it sounds suspiciously like _‘Yeah, actually.’_

  
  


—

  
  


“For today’s stream, I have George with me.” Clay announces to the camera, a bit muffled by the white hockey mask he’s wearing. It has a crudely drawn smiley face on it, and is mildly unsettling to look at. “No scams, no pranks. This is real.”

“Hi. It’s me. George.” George says and does awkward jazz hands.

“Since George is literally next to me, we thought it would be fun to have him control the mouse while I control the keyboard and see if we can beat Minecraft.” Clay smiles. “Kind of like the Siamese twins video we made before.”

They are—unsurprisingly—able to beat the game, despite George accidentally elbowing Clay in the side a half dozen times. At one point, Clay does that dumb yawn-thing and slings his arm over George’s shoulders.

“Stop it.” George complains, while the chat has an absolute meltdown. 

“What? I’m just trying to be efficient with our space.” Clay says innocently.

“You’re so annoying.” George grumbles, but makes no effort to separate himself.

He kind of likes it.

—

When George sees Clay the next morning he has a black eye and a deep gash on his cheek. His clothes are rumpled and dirty, and he’s rolling gauze around his knuckles.

“Clay, what the hell happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” Clay replies, tone uncharacteristically cold.

“You’re clearly not!” George’s voice is shrill. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m dealing with it. _Okay?”_

“How did this even happen?” George steps closer to Clay and pushes his bangs away from his face. “Let me get some ice for you or something.”

“Stop it.” 

“I’ll stop when you tell me how this happened.” George answers evenly. “It can’t be that bad. Just tell me.”

“Maybe it’s none of your business. Did you think of that?” Clay grabs George’s wrist and yanks it roughly away from his face. 

“Clay, let go of me.” George tries to sound firm, but it comes out as a whimper. 

Clay’s eyes are glassy and his eyes are distant as though he’s looking through George. “It’s none of your business. Did you think about that? You’re in my house. What I do in my free time doesn’t concern you, George.” Clay’s grip on George’s wrist is tightening to the point where it’s starting to hurt. 

George feels paralyzed. He tries to pull away, but then Clay grabs his other wrist. He’s trapped. It takes all of his effort to not start hysterically crying.

“You’re wrong, if you think you have the right to ask me to explain myself.” Clay sneers, baring his teeth. He’s close enough that George can count the freckles on his cheeks and see the ire in his eyes.

George knows he’s probably just seeing things, but it looks like Clay’s gums are bloodstained. There’s something unhinged in his expression. The man before him is not his friend. For a moment George fears that Clay is going to tear out his throat with his teeth.

“You’re scaring me. Stop it.” Tears burn behind his eyelids.

This makes Clay falter, enough that his hold loosens and George is able to free his wrists and put some space between them. 

“I hurt you.” Clay’s eyes are focused on the bright red handprints that curl around George’s forearms. They’ll probably turn to bruises. “Come here. Let me help you.”

“You’ve done enough.” George says and scrambles out of the kitchen. He bursts through the front door. He doesn’t know if Clay is behind him, but he’s not taking any chances. He isn’t even wearing shoes and can feel his feet getting cut up on the gravel, but he keeps running until he’s at the street, and then keeps going until he can’t walk anymore.

It’s raining and his hair is plastered to his forehead. He doesn’t have his phone on him either. He’s thousands of miles from home and he’s all alone. He sits on the pavement and hides his face in his hands. He cries until his mouth is bitter and dry, and his tears have dried to a sticky residue on his cheeks.

Eventually, he hears a car in the distance. The rain has stopped, but it’s still foggy enough that George can’t see who it is until it stops in front of him.

_“George!”_ Clay jumps out of his car and runs across the road. His eyes are red and his cheeks are wet. George wonders if he’s been crying, and then hates himself for even caring. 

Something cold and shaped like dread settles in George’s gut. He’s alone. It’s just him and Clay. He knows he should run, and yet, he can feel the fight leaving his body. He’s too tired to be angry. He can feel himself soften the moment he hears Clay’s voice.

“Let me help you.” Clay says tenderly and scoops George into his arms. 

George wants to scream, to cry, to bite. Instead, he lets Clay carry him to the car.

“Are you mad at me?” Clay asks a few moments into their drive back. 

“Kind of.” George says, even though he isn’t completely sure why. He’s upset and hurt, and he _is_ mad at Clay. But something stops him from voicing this. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

“Save it for later, Clay.” George croaks, trying to hold onto his hurt since it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes well up, for some reason. Maybe because he’s overwhelmed, maybe because he hates how the moment he saw Clay, he had already forgiven him.

When they pull back into the garage, George gets out of the car before Clay can come around and open his door. He takes a breath and begins to trudge towards the house. His feet start to bleed harder after he steps on a particularly sharp rock. He doesn’t even feel it. 

“George, wait!” Clay calls after him.

George holds his breath and turns around. Clay is running towards him and George can’t decide if he’s terrified or grateful.

George’s knees give out and he sinks to the ground. “I was so scared.” He sobs, gripping desperately at Clay’s hoodie as though that will make him understand. “I was scared of you.” He whimpers.

Clay picks up George without further warning. George lets his head fall into the crook of Clay’s neck, any protests dying on his tongue. Clay is warm and strong and holds George carefully as though he’s made from glass.

George screws his eyes shut and tries to pretend he doesn’t exist for a few moments.

Clay carries him into a bathroom that has marble countertops and sleek cabinets and sets him down on the closed toilet. He wordlessly rifles through the drawers and starts by gently wiping off George’s heels. 

Clay talks to him while dabbing at his feet with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. His voice settles like warm honey in George’s mind. It’s numbing, soothing, pleasantly suffocating, filling all the hollow spaces that George hadn’t even realized were left empty.

—

George doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up sunlight is streaming in through the window. 

It takes him a few moments to make sense of his surroundings, but then he realizes it. He’s in Clay’s bed. Clay is sitting against the headboard reading a book.

“I’m in your bed?” George presses his palms against his eyelids and groans. “God, my head hurts.”

“You just fell asleep and it was easier to bring you to my room.” Clay puts his book down and brushes George’s hair away from his face. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No. Can you get me an Advil, though?”

“Of course, I’ll be right back.” Clay returns with a cold glass of water and two pills tucked into a tissue. 

George swallows the pills dry and closes his eyes.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” 

“Later.” George mumbles and tries to ignore the ringing in his ears and how every shred of self-preservation he has is telling him to run and hide. “I don’t feel well.”

“Okay.” Clay answers quietly, and gently cards his fingers through George’s hair. He massages George’s scalp with long, deft fingers. 

George leans into his touch and immediately feels better. It’s easy to forget. It’s easy to forget how Clay pinned him against the counter. It’s easy to forget the image of blood dripping from Clay’s teeth. It’s easy to forget the visceral terror he felt. Because right now, George feels cared for and safe.

They never end up talking about it and George decides that they don’t need to. He’s almost able to convince himself that it never happened, and as long as he keeps pretending, it will just go away. Everything is fine. He’ll get through the rest of these two weeks and go home.

(In his dreams, the image of sharp white daggers, slick with blood, haunt him. Pomegranate-colored handprints stain his skin. But everything is fine. It has to be.)

—

The wind is violent and the sky is dark. The storm is aggressive enough that the palm trees which line the highway are bending sideways—but not breaking. 

“Looks like there’s a storm coming in.” Clay says and changes the car’s radio to the weather report. 

A woman with a pleasant voice announces that the tropical storm has developed into a category three hurricane, and that everyone on the coast should immediately evacuate. Clay isn’t on the coast, but he’s still within ten miles of it. 

“That’s not good.” George glances nervously out the window. The rain is coming down so hard that he can barely see the street.

“No, it’s not.” Clay runs a hand through his hair. “We’ll be fine, though. I have a generator and enough bottled water to sustain a small county.”

“Why? Are you expecting an apocalypse or something?”

“Or something.” Clay echoes grimly.

—

“Crap.” George groans. The weather lady on Clay’s large flatscreen pleasantly announces that the hurricane has worsened to a category four. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve lived in this house through a category five before, all that’ll happen is a few trees will fall down, some flooding in the yard at worst.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” George sighs. “They just cancelled my flight.”

“Then just book another one?” 

“They’re all full for the next month.” George groans and buries his face in the couch. 

“Oh.” Clay pauses. “What’s the issue?”

“It’s fine, I’ll just have to stay at a hotel or something.”

“Why? Why wouldn’t you just stay with me? Do you not like it here?” Clay demands.

“I don’t want to impose.” George replies tersely.

“You’re not. Stay here.” Clay says firmly. 

“Thanks.” George ignores how Clay didn’t even ask him if he _wanted_ to stay here. It’s not a big deal, and George knows he should be grateful, but it didn’t even feel like he had a choice in the matter.

“This will be great.” Clay smiles at him and squeezes his knee. 

George forces the corners up his lips to turn up. “Yeah. It’ll be fun.” He tries to convince himself that he means it.

Clay falls asleep on the couch after a few minutes of silence. George is torn between curling up next to him and running as far as he can. 

—

George realizes that he must’ve fallen asleep too, because when he wakes up he’s alone on the couch. There’s a knitted blanket over his legs, one that looks homemade. Clay probably put it on him. The gesture is small, and yet it makes George’s heart warm. 

He checks his phone. It’s past midnight. His back is going to hurt if he stays in the couch all night, so he decides to head to his room.

A grey Florida Dolphins sweatshirt is folded over the back of the couch—George vaguely remembers seeing Clay in it earlier in the day. George is cold without the blanket so he hopes that Clay doesn’t mind sharing. 

The sweatshirt is a few sizes oversized on George. The sleeves end past his fingertips and it's long enough that it hits him mid-thigh. He feels kind of stupid, but he’s cold enough that he decides he doesn’t give a shit. 

It smells like Clay. Sweet, yet musky, like a bonfire on a rainy night. Or like honeycomb and fresh timber. The scent of something smokey clings to the fabric. Burnt, but not unpleasant. 

The image of Clay’s clavicle flashes into George’s mind. A thin sheen of sweat clinging to it. He can almost taste the gunpowder on Clay’s skin if he tries hard enough. 

George tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. 

—

George wakes up to heavy metal and howling wind. He thinks it’s testament to how strange living with Clay has been so far that he doesn’t even blink an eye. When George emerges from his room, Clay isn’t sharpening blades or doing squats on the coffee table, or doing anything even slightly out of the ordinary.

He’s dusting. 

It’s so mundane that George has to laugh. 

The noise must catch Clay’s attention because he pauses the music on his speaker.

George opens his mouth to say ‘good morning’ or ‘who the fuck still owns a feather duster,’ but Clay cuts him off.

“That’s my sweater.” 

“Shit, sorry. Do you want it back?” 

George already has one arm out of the sleeve when Clay replies. “No. Keep it. Looks better on you.”

“Are you sure?” George asks hesitantly.

“Keep it.” Clay repeats, something dark and possessive in his voice. “You look good.” 

“It’s just a hoodie.” George says in a strained voice. 

“You look good, George. I mean it.” 

“Thanks.” George swallows roughly. He always feels like he’s biting off more than he can chew, without even meaning to. “I’m going to get my—uh, get my laptop.”

“Alright.” Clay licks his lips, not unlike a predator watching his prey. George forces his eyes away.

“Yeah, so I’ll be doing that—fuck.” George stumbles as he trips over his own feet.

“Okay.” Clay clears his throat, but his voice is low and gravely when he speaks. “I’ll just be here. Dusting.”

George hurries back to his room and slams the door shut behind him.

He slams his forehead against the closed door a few times. He doesn’t want to kiss Clay. _He doesn’t._

That would just be weird.

_—_

“I’ll see you later. I’m heading out back.” Clay tells him while they load the dishwasher after dinner. It’s domestic in ways that make George’s heart flutter pleasantly.

“Why? It’s kind of late, isn’t it?”

“I won’t be out there long, it’s just that the hurricane is going to make landfall soon…” Clay pauses before hurriedly finishing his sentence, “And I want to clean my guns.”

“Oh.” George says dumbly. “Why can’t you just clean them inside?” 

“I thought it might make you uncomfortable.” 

George thinks about it for a second. Sure, at one point he probably would have shit his pants at the mere sight of a gun. But a lot has happened in the past week, and if he’s going to stay here for the next month, he’s just going to have to learn to live with Clay’s oddities.

“I’m fine with it. It was—“ George thinks about the way Clay had pressed up against him and whispered in his ear. “Cool. Yeah, it was cool.” George finishes lamely and awkwardly clears his throat.

“Cool?” Clay asks teasingly, something knowing in his eyes.

“Shut up.” George feels himself flush and turns away. 

“Which one do you like more?” In his right hand, Clay holds a sleek, matte black pistol. It has a very streamlined and tactical design. In his left hand, he holds a gun that looks like it has a bit more bells and whistles, with less of a smooth design and more interesting curves.

“That one.” George points at the one in his right hand.

“The Glock?” Clay asks. “I had a feeling you would. Personally, I prefer the Beretta.” 

“Here, I’ll show you how to clean it.” Clay casually tosses George the Glock. “Don’t worry, it’s not loaded.”

“Wow.” George mumbles and examines the pistol gingery. There’s something about it that inspires both fear and reverence within him.

“You like it?” Clay has a smug look on his face. 

George gulps. “Yeah. It’s kind of pretty.”

“You’d probably like my rifles.” Clay says, but George barely hears him. He can feel adrenaline coursing through his veins and can’t tell if he’s on the verge of a boner or puking on Clay’s shoes.

“I could get you one, if you want.”

“Huh?” George blinks a few times and tries to focus on Clay’s voice.

“Do you want one? I’ll get you one.” Clay says casually as though they’re talking about literally anything other than semi-automatic weapons.

“That’s not legal, Clay.” George says.

“Sure it is. Anything is legal in Florida.”

George doubts it, but he doesn’t say anything.

“You shouldn’t, though.” George can’t help but dance around outright refusal, because he kind of doesn’t hate the idea of it.

“Maybe. But I’m not hearing you say ‘no’ either.” Clay smirks. “How’s this: just think about it, okay?”

“Yeah.” George breathes. He copies what Clay is doing, and applies oil to the springs.

“You handle it well and you look good with it. _Really,_ let me get you one.” Clay says once they’re finished cleaning and oiling the guns. 

“I’m thinking about it.” George answers honestly. Never in his life did he ever think he’d even be considering something like this.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Clay smiles genuinely. “It’d make me feel good, knowing that you have the means to protect yourself.”

“I don’t plan on shooting anyone in the near future. Pen is mightier than the sword, Clay.”

“Whatever.” Clay rolls his eyes playfully and leans incrementally closer.

George’s breath hitches.

“Are you scared of me?” Clay asks teasingly.

“I’m not. Should I be?” George’s heart is beating rapidly in his chest. He is a bit scared, but he realizes that he kind of likes it. However, the way his pulse is racing is not because of fear.

“You shouldn’t.” Clay answers, expression open and honest. 

Up close, Clay looks young, doe eyed and lively. George can count his eyelashes and see the pale freckles that are dotted across his nose. With just a few inches between them, it’s plain to see that Clay is just a twenty one year-old kid. One that fucks up sometimes and is still figuring things out. He’s human.

George leans closer and he can feel Clay’s breath on his cheek.

“What are you doing?” Clay rasps, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.

“I know this isn’t the Nickelodeon Resort, but I think you can put two-and-two together.” George chuckles softly. 

“Asshole.” Clay mutters and twists his fingers in George’s hair. He angles George’s face up, so that they’re making eye contact. Even sitting down, George is painfully aware of how much taller Clay is.

Clay grabs at the back of his neck, his hand is large enough that he could probably strangle George with just one hand. The thought is tantalizing and exhilarating.

Clay carefully pushes George’s hair out of his face before aggressively grabbing his chin. He’s being rough, but George decides he likes it.

“Then stop giving me that dumb look and do something, Clay.” 

Clay manhandles him onto his lap and pulls him close enough that they’re chest-to-chest.

“Shut up.” Clay nearly growls and surges forward. He presses their mouths together and it’s all teeth and tongue, but it’s also kind of hot. Clay bites at George’s lip, and when they kiss again, the metallic flavor of blood lingers on Clay’s tongue.

George wonders if it’s fucked up that he likes the taste.

—

“Hey, guys.” George says to the camera. Before the stream, Clay had helped George set up some of his older tech in his room.

Clay is sitting just out of frame, looking at his phone. He gives off the impression that he’s not paying attention, but George knows that Clay is watching his every move. 

“You guys might not recognize the background.” George gestures carelessly behind him. “This is actually the room I’m staying in at Clay’s house.”

Rain pitter-patters against the window. The storm is getting closer.

“There’s a hurricane coming up the coast and I think I’ll be here for a little longer than I had expected. So, you guys can expect to see me streaming here for the next few weeks.” 

In the corner of the room, Clay smirks down at his phone. George wonders if he’ll still be here even after the storm passes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments last chapter!! They are my lifeblood :) 
> 
> They’re finally kinda dating but it’s complicated lol, but I’m excited to further complicate things ya feel.
> 
> Also I always feel like I’m toeing the line of writing pure crack LMAO


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for brief homophobic slurs/language!

“Crap, it sounds rough out there.” Clay mumbles groggily. The wind whistles and howls outside the window. 

“Yeah.” George’s voice is muffled against Clay’s t-shirt. 

“Come here.” Clay says tenderly, and pulls George impossibly closer. His hands can nearly encircle George’s waist. He presses his lips against George’s scalp and George leans into the touch. 

George runs his fingers along the supple inside of Clay’s wrist. He presses harder against the prominent vein at the place where Clay’s wrist meets his hand. He can feel Clay’s pulse, slow and steady. 

“I’m sorry.” George thinks he hears Clay whisper, but when he glances up, Clay is sound asleep. He’s tired enough where his brain is probably just playing tricks on him.

George runs his fingers through Clay’s hair and falls asleep with warmth in his heart. 

—

“Be more careful, dumbass.” Clay tsks.

“Oh. Oops.” George stares down at the small cut on his thumb. Blood is starting to bead at the seams of the wound. 

“Don’t just stand there, you’re going to bleed on the cucumbers.” Clay yanks his hand away from the chopping board.

Before George can process what’s happening, Clay has George’s thumb in his mouth. George can feel Clay’s tongue lapping up the blood. His mouth is hot and velvety soft and George tells himself that he shouldn’t like this.

“That’s not sanitary, Clay.” George clears his throat but doesn’t pull his hand away. 

Clay doesn’t break eye contact as he slowly takes George’s thumb out of his mouth. 

“Why? It’s not like you don’t know where my mouth’s been.” Clay smirks and presses his lips against George’s.

The faint flavor of George’s blood on Clay’s tongue lingers.

George melts into the kiss, and any thoughts that he had about how hot that was or how fucked up it is that he liked it are forgotten.

  
  


—

“Do you want to go on a date? Like, an actual one.”

“What?” George blanches.

“A date. With me.” Clay replies evenly. 

_“Now?”_ George asks incredulously. “We’re in a fucking hurricane.”

“No, idiot. Not _now.”_ Clay laughs. “After the hurricane passes.”

“Won’t things be destroyed and shit?”

“It’s Florida, we’re used to having a yearly apocalypse.”

“Oh.” George replies dumbly. Then he thinks about it. _“Date?!”_

“Yeah. Was that part unclear?” Clay asks dryly.

“You _like_ me?” 

“Either you’re really dense or playing hard to get.” Clay rolls his eyes. _“Yes_ , I like you. I thought it was obvious. I don’t usually spoon with people I don’t like.”

“I mean, yeah.” George flushes.

“So, what’s it going to be Georgie?” Clay smirks. “Will you go on a date with me?”

_“No.”_ George intones sarcastically. “I’m joking. Yes, I’ll go on a date with you.” George allows himself to smile despite the sirens that ring quietly in the back of his mind. 

A voice—nearly silent, but still _there—_ tells him that he should run while he still can.

—

“This is not what I was expecting for a date, but it makes perfect sense.” George says. 

They’re at a shooting range in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. It’s still raining viciously and the wind is strong enough at times that George feels the need to hold onto Clay’s hand. They’re probably still technically in the hurricane, but Clay is a Florida Man to the core and tells him the worst of the storm has passed. 

(In more ways than one, George wonders if they’re actually in just the eye.)

George is only marginally reassured by the fact that they aren’t the only ones at the range. He supposes it’s in the Floridan blood to want to go into a tropical storm and shoot things. 

“Come on, the range is indoors, it’ll be fine.” Clay tries to coax him out of the car. 

“I’m not worried about the storm, Clay.” George whines. “I look stupid.”

“No, you don’t.” Clay says immediately, much too quickly to be genuine.

George is wearing a bright blue raincoat and matching rain boots. He didn’t think that anyone beside themselves would be crazy enough to go anywhere on the tail-end of a hurricane, but there’s at least a dozen cars in the lot.

“You said no one would be here.” George whines. “Literally all of Florida is here.”

“First of all, there’s maybe ten other people here, at most. And second, fuck what anyone else thinks. I always think you look good, so who gives a shit?”

Clay grabs his hand to try to pull him along but George drags his heels in the mud. 

“You’re such a drama queen.” Clay huffs a laugh and shrugs off his aviator jacket. “Take this so we can actually get inside.”

“I can’t. You’re going to get wet.” George protests.

“I don’t give a fuck about the rain. I just want to shoot shit. Come on.” Clay manhandles George’s arms into the sleeves. They end past George’s fingertips and the scent of sawdust and gunpowder kings to the collar. It’s still warm from Clay wearing it.

Clay holds his hand and George feels himself melt just a bit more.

“You look cute.” Clay tells him once they’re inside the building.

“Shut up… I’m manly. Shooting things. Yay.” George flashes a weak thumbs up.

“The manliest.” Clay says teasingly and presses a kiss to his forehead.

Suddenly, a man with gangly limbs and a hood pulled low over his face shoulder-checks George. It’s forceful enough that George stumbles backward and has to grab Clay’s arm to steady himself.

“Hey, watch it.” Clay barks. 

“Take the gay shit outside then.” The man sneers back. “Ain’t nobody want to see that.”

“Are you looking for a fight or something?” Clay pushes past George and gets chest to chest with the other man. “You want me to beat you to a fucking pulp? Is that it?”

“Get away from me. You’re disgusting.” The man laughs raucously. He’s a head shorter than Clay and has the build of a scarecrow. George decides he must either be the stupidest person alive or have a death wish. 

“Say that again.” Clay growls lowly. It's terrifying, not because Clay is loud, but because he is quiet. 

“I said, get away from me, _fag_.” The man spits in Clay’s face.

Instantaneously, Clay has the man in a chokehold and is dragging him by the neck outside.

George throws a desperate glance at the woman behind the desk, who simply shrugs in reply, as if to say, ‘Not my problem.’ 

When George gets outside, Clay has the man flat on his back in the gravel, gun resting beneath his chin. 

“Still in the mood to fight?” Clay asks darkly and flips the safety off. 

The man, quite literally, pees himself.

“Who’s the disgusting one now? Huh?! Answer me!” Clay screams in the man’s face. “Fucking son of a bitch can’t hold his piss. Why don’t we see how well you hold a bullet, yeah?”

George sees the tendons in Clay’s wrist tense. He opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. His feet are glued to the ground.

Clay looks at him, and must see something in George’s eyes, because he flips the safety back on his gun. 

George is ready to breathe a sigh of relief, but then Clay starts throwing punch after punch. “That’s for touching George.” He grits out.

Clay slams the man’s head against the ground. “That’s for calling me a fag.”

“Clay, that’s enough!” George yells.

Then he gets up and kicks the man’s ribs a few times. “And that’s for ruining my date.”

_“Clay!”_

“Yeah, George?” Clay’s eyes are blown wide and crazed, but his posture is weary. 

“Please. Let’s just go, okay?” George pleads weakly.

Clay nods and together they walk back to the car. 

“I’m sorry that guy ruined our date.” Clay says and puts the keys in the ignition. “And I’m sorry you had to see that.”

_“Clay._ You pulled a gun on him!” George exclaims.

“I wasn’t actually going to shoot. I just wanted to teach him a lesson.” 

George swallows roughly and tries to focus on getting air back into his lungs.

“You believe me, right?”

“I—“ George trails off. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Well, you trust me.”

“I do.” George admits quietly. Because even now, there’s no one he trusts more. And that’s the scariest part. “You know that.”

“So, then you can believe me.” Clay replies. “I knew you didn’t want me to shoot. So, I didn't do it. It’s as simple as that.”

“Yeah, simple.” George echoes hollowly. 

—

“What if I wanted you to?” George whispers, once they’re in bed that night. 

“Wanted me to what?” Clay slurs groggily.

_“Shoot him.”_

“Then I would have.” Clay cracks an eye open to watch George carefully.

“Why? Why would you do that for me.”

“Can’t this wait?”

“I need to know.” George says, even though he isn’t sure why.

“Alright. Well, it’s for three reasons. First of all, I hate homophobes.” Clay says. “Secondly, you’re my best friend George, and I’ll always try to protect you.”

“What’s the third reason?” George’s breath hitches when Clay strokes his cheek with the pad of with thumb.

_“Because I love you, George.”_ Clay says hurriedly, in one breath. “And I have for a long time. I would do anything for you.”

“You would kill for me?” George feels like he’s having an out of body experience. 

Clay presses their lips together. “Anything.” He murmurs and George breathes him in. 

“I love you, too.” George exhales, partly out of lust and partly out of fear, giving Clay back so much more than he should. 

—

It’s easy to fit into Clay’s life. George sleeps on the left side of the bed and Clay sleeps on the right. George’s belongings begin to migrate to Clay’s room as he carves out a little space for himself in Clay’s life. 

Clay makes breakfast, George makes dinner. Clay runs hot like a furnace, while George is always cold. They stream at odd hours and then fall asleep tangled together and it just works. 

George wonders if they’re being too obvious when Clay boops his nose on stream in front of two hundred thousand people.

—

“What the fuck.” George mutters to himself. He scrolls through the article for what has to be the tenth time. 

There’s been another murder in the area, closer to where Clay lives—just a mile south of the shooting range they had been at just days prior. George knows it’s crazy—considering he only saw half of the man’s face—but when he sees the photo of the victim, he _knows_ it’s the same guy from the range. 

Surely, Clay would have mentioned it, if it was something to be concerned about, but George can’t help but feel nervous.

The details are gorey. The man was found naked with his arms and wrists bound. His throat was slit and he was gagged with his own penis. It makes George’s stomach turn. This wasn’t clean or quick, this was violent and personal.

The article points out that this killing was out of the ordinary for the ‘Florida Fiend’ since the victim was just an ordinary person, not a sex offender or something of the like (though George can definitely sympathize with getting rid of those types of people). The police aren’t sure what to make of it, and are entertaining the idea of someone else being behind it.

George glances at Clay surreptitiously, who’s at the stove flipping a grilled cheese and humming something that sounds a bit like the Adventure Time theme song. As soon as the thought enters his mind, George dismisses it. Clay can’t be involved with this. It’s literally impossible, since he’s been basically glued to George’s hip for the past week.

Chances are that since that guy was such an asshole he just went and pissed off someone else. It has to be coincidental.

But George still needs to hear Clay say it.

“Clay.” George’s voice catches.

“You good?” Clay asks and puts a sandwich in front of him. It has a ketchup smiley face drawn on it.

“Yeah, it’s nothing. Thanks.” George clears his throat and forces the corners of his mouth up. 

He immediately feels guilty for even entertaining the idea of it being Clay. The man before him isn’t a killer. He’s young and sweet and caring. He lets George wear his sweater when he’s cold and makes the best chocolate chip pancakes. 

He loves George.

_Not a killer._ George chants to himself until the words are seared into the back of his eyelids.

—

“Clay, if you don’t mind, I kind of want to cancel my flight and stay here a bit longer. There’s no reason for me to go back to England, yet.” George leans into Clay’s side. “I’ve been thinking of moving to America for a while, and this could be a good chance to look at apartments or something.”

“I’d love that.” Clay smiles. 

“Thank you, I’m glad. Do you want to cancel my flight , or should I?”

“About that…” Clay trails off. “Don’t get mad, okay?”

“What is it?”

“I never booked the flight in the first place. I was hoping you’d end up staying longer anyway.” Clay says hurriedly.

_“What?”_ George feels himself go through something akin to the seven stages of grief. 

“I mean, it worked out, didn’t it?”

“You can’t just make decisions for me and lie about them.” George tries to push down his anger, but it’s hard. He feels manipulated. “I’m not a puppet, you know?”

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have. I can book you a new flight right now, if you want.” 

“No.” George sighs. “I just need to think. Don’t wait up for me, I’m going to sleep in the guest room tonight.”

“George, please. I won’t do it again.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this right now.” George runs out of the room before he can do something stupid, like forgive Clay. 

—

Despite his best intentions, George still ends up in Clay’s arms that night. 

“I’m sorry.” Clay whispers hoarsely.

“I know.” 

“Are you mad at me?” 

George chews on his lip nervously. Clay looks so sad and innocent. It makes George want to wrap him up in a blanket and tell him everything’s okay.

“Kind of.” George says after a pause that stretches far too long. Because the truth is, no matter how he tries, he can never stay mad at Clay.

Clay nods and looks like he’s about to cry, and George feels himself soften. “Just, no more lies, okay?”

“I promise.” Clay answers. A single tear slides down his cheek. 

George slots their lips together and gently runs his fingers along Clay’s scalp. “Don’t cry.” 

“I’m just so sorry.” Clay sobs into the space between them. 

“Why?” George presses their foreheads together. 

“I hate myself for lying to you. I just didn’t want you to leave me.” 

“If you wanted me to stay, all you had to do was ask.”

“I know but everyone always leaves me.” Clay’s voice is thick with emotion. “Eventually you’ll leave, too.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” George pulls Clay closer. “I’m right here.”

“Promise me.” Clay’s voice cracks. “Promise that you won’t leave me.” 

“I promise, Clay.” George holds Clay tight to his chest. He feels the wetness of tears dampen his shirt and wants nothing more to take away Clay’s pain. 

George holds Clay until he falls into a restless sleep. He wonders who hurt Clay this much, even though he knows it’s probably better not to pry.

The next morning, Clay is quiet and demure, probably because he’s embarrassed about crying. 

George doesn’t know if he should bring it up or not. So he doesn’t. 

Instead, he tells Clay, “I love you.” And hopes that it’ll make everything right again.

It seems to work, because Clay flashes him a grateful smile and envelops him in a hug. “I love you, too.”

—

“I’m guessing you haven’t seen any of the highlights fans are posting from the last stream.” Clay says while they eat dinner. His expression morphs in something strained, simultaneously a grin and a grimace. 

“No?” George asks and cautiously raises a forkful of pasta to his lips. “Why?”

“It’s nothing bad.” Clay scratches at the back his neck. “There just was _a-hickey-on-your-neck.”_

“Huh? Can you say that again? But slower.” George furrows his brow.

“There was. A hickey on your neck.” Clay is blushing and it’s painfully endearing. “And people noticed.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“They know you’re living with me right now. It’s a bit incriminating.” Clay says tensely.

“That’s it?” George chuckles. “God, I thought it was going to be something actually bad. Like, I was cancelled on twitter or something.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Not really.” George says around a mouthful of pasta. “As long as it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Oh.” Clay says dumbly. “Same goes for me. It doesn’t bother me, then. I was just worried it would bother you.”

George shrugs. “People are going to think what they want. Those that thought that we were dating before this still will, and those that think we weren’t still will.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Also, quit it with the coy act. It doesn’t suit you.” 

“Idiot, I was worried it’d upset you.”

“You big sap.” Molasses-thick fondness aches in George’s chest. “God, I love you.”

—

George wakes up in the middle of the night and he feels wide awake. Clay is still sleeping soundly, breathing slow and deeply. 

It’s dark in the hallway. Pale moonlight pours in through the windows, stark and white, while erie shadows of trees dance on the walls.

George pads into the kitchen and opens the fridge. He stares at a cup of blueberry yogurt for a few minutes until the fridge starts to beep in complaint. He relents and closes the fridge door. He’s not even hungry, for the most part, just restless and bored. 

Eventually, he settles on one of the ripe pomegranates from the bowl on the counter. The juice is sweet, dark, and bloodlike. It stains his fingers despite how he nearly scrubs them raw in the sink after. 

Even after the rinds are in the trash, George still doesn’t feel ready to sleep. He’s in no rush to lay in bed and stare at the ceiling, so he wanders out of the kitchen and down a hallway he doesn’t think he’s seen before.

Clay’s house is large and sprawling. It’s like a Labyrinth at times. George passes blank wall after wall, and wonders why there aren’t any pictures hung. It’s a bit unnerving, because surely Clay has a family. So why wouldn’t he want to have pictures of them in his home?

Eventually, George reaches the end of the hallway. The door that greets him is passcode locked—maybe it’s to the garage—so George’s only option is to turn back. 

He takes one step backwards and bumps into something warm and definitely human. Instantaneously, there’s a cold blade under his chin and an arm locking around his front. 

George immediately recognizes the silver rings and the familiar sweatshirt on the arm that grabs him. He swallows and tries not to panic. “Clay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER I do not have a piss kink if you thought that scene was hot maybe YOU have a piss kink
> 
> Omg it’s plot! She’s really out here. 
> 
> I wrote this instead of doing actual Important College Stuff. Was it worth it? Probably not. Will I do it again? Yes. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope y’all liked this! I’m so blown away by all the amazing comments and support I’ve received. Thank you so much!! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that sapnap’s real name is Nick not that he’s in this chapter or anything yanno

“Clay?” George squeaks. He doesn’t dare to move an inch.

“George? Shit, sorry.” Clay lowers the knife from George’s chin and George can breathe again. 

“What the fuck, Clay?” George hisses and jerks away from Clay. “Are you insane?!”

“Sorry. I was sure someone had broken in and it's kind of dark in this hallway, so I saw you and just reacted.”

“Why would you think someone broke in?”

Clay pulls out his phone and shows George the security app. “The back door was opened without the code being put in, which is on me since I forgot to tell you it. Here, I’ll give it to you right—“

“What back door?” George asks, dread churning in his stomach. “The one in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, why? Didn’t you go for a walk or something?” Clay furrows his brow.

“I didn’t open it.” It feels like his tongue is made of cotton and George struggles to get the words out. “I didn’t go outside. All I did was go to the kitchen and eat something and then I decided to walk through the halls a bit.”

_“Fuck.”_ Clay glances over his shoulder. “Shit, come with me.”

“What’s going on?”

Clay doesn’t answer and grabs George by his upper arm and drags him down a different hallway. George struggles to put each foot in front of the other. They reach the door that has a passcode lock and Clay enters the code too quickly for George to comprehend. 

The room that greets him is nothing that George had expected. If he’s honest, part of him was expecting the walls to be lined with guns or for it to be some type of sex dungeon. Instead, there’s just a dual computer monitor on a rather humble-looking desk. A map is on the wall with push-pins at various locations. 

_“Fuck, where are you?”_ Clay mutters and crouches in front of the monitors. On the screen is what looks to be live video feed of each room in the house. “I knew this would happen, I don’t even have a gun on me.”

“Clay, what’s going on?”

“Later, okay? I’ll tell you later.” Clay says hurriedly. A man darts across on of the screens and George wonders if this is how he’ll die. 

“You have to tell me what’s going on! Who the fuck was that?!” George rakes a hand through his hair and tries to remember how his lungs work.

“What do you want to know?” Clay asks, but doesn’t peel his eyes away from the monitors as he clicks the mouse rapidly.

“What the hell is happening?” 

“I’m trying to see if any of the cameras are picking up on anything.” Clay scrubs at his face with his hands roughly. “Fuck. I knew this would happen.”

George’s heart stutters in his chest and his tongue feels like sandpaper.

Clay curses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how he got past all the security I have outdoors, but there's someone in the house.”

“Do you…” George swallows around the fear in his chest. “Do you think it’s the _Florida Fiend?”_ He asks in a hushed voice.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Clay is quick to say, but he doesn’t elaborate further.

George watches as Clay flips through the video feed of the different rooms in his house. They’ve looked at nearly every room on the first and second floor when Clay’s breath hitches.

“He’s there.”

“Where is that?” George squints at the screen. It’s a room he hasn’t seen before.

“It’s upstairs, it was my sister’s room a while ago.” 

The walls are pale and covered with posters of The Jonas Brothers. The bed is unmade and the curtains are open. The room has the appearance as though someone ran out in a hurry, but the way Clay phrases it makes George think it’s been a long time since the room was lived in. 

The man in screen looks to be a bit older than George, but it’s hard to tell. His cheeks are hollowed and his face is gaunt. He looks frail and unhinged. It’s the type of man that George fears most: not one that is confident and mighty, but one that has given up and has nothing left to lose. 

He makes direct eye contact with the camera and stares at it unblinkingly for what feels like days. Finally, he smiles, but it is one that is cruel and bitter.

“Clay, we should call the police.” George says when he finally finds his voice again. Cold sweat slides down his spine and George can’t shake the feeling that something horrible is about to happen.

“No.” Clay replies coldly. “I can’t involve them. It’s too late for that anyway.”

George’s heart is pounding in his chest. He doesn’t have his phone with him. “Please, call them.”

“No. It’s too dangerous.” 

George opens his mouth to ask ‘why,’ when the man pulls out a knife. The blade is long and dangerously sharp. Immediately, the words die on his tongue.

Pointedly and precisely, the man slices down his left wrist. The cut starts to violently gush with blood. George’s feet feel glued to the floor and he feels on the verge of passing out. 

The man dips his fingers into the blood and begins to make deliberate strokes on the pale walls. 

_YOUR FAULT_ , reads the sloppy letters. Next to the smears on the wall is Nick Jonas’ smiling face.

“Blood is on your hands.” The man mouths to the camera. Even without sound, the words are unmistakable on his lips.

The man then sits on the floor and pulls his knees to his chest. George wonders if it’s wrong of him to wish the man would just die already. The man convulses and tremors on the floor for what could be either minutes or days, but eventually it stops. It makes bile rise in the back of George’s throat. _He’s dead._

What comes later is the realization that he watched a man die and did _nothing_.

Clay’s expression is more devoid of emotion than George has ever seen. His face is completely blank.

“Clay.” George tries not to hyperventilate.”What the fuck just happened?”

“I can’t tell you.” Clay doesn’t look away from the screen. 

“You need to. I just saw a man kill himself. You _can’t_ keep me in the dark.” 

“ _Please._ I promise I’ll explain. I just can’t do it right now.” In the dim, cold light of the monitors, George can see faint wetness of Clay’s cheeks. “I can’t, I can't, I can’t.” Clay croaks.

“Okay.” George lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a whine and a whimper. “Are you going to call the police?” 

“I’m sorry. I can’t, George. _I can’t.”_

George feels nothing. His body is moving on its own accord. He is not his own. He feels so far removed from himself that he wonders if any of this is actually happening, if it’s even real.

“You shouldn’t have seen that.” Clay says quietly after a long silence.

George can barely hear Clay. He’s shaking at the knees and it’s taking all of his energy just to stay upright. Distantly, George wonders if he’s dying.

“Listen to me, George.” Clay grips George’s hand like a vice, both desperate and pleading. “You can’t tell anyone about this. Please. You can’t.”

“I won’t.” George tries to say around the lump of visceral fear in his throat.

“I know.” Clay says softly, and tenderly strokes George’s cheek with the back of his hand. “That’s why I’m sorry.” 

“Why?” George demands. 

“You have to stay here, George.”

“What?” George’s voice is shrill and loud, but he can barely hear himself speak. 

“You’re a liability now. It’s for the best.” Clay says somberly, as though it pains him.

“You can’t do that!” George’s vision is dark and blurred and he can barely see straight. He feels like a caged animal. His face is damp but he can’t tell if it’s with tears or blood.

_He’s trapped._

“I’m sorry, George.” Clay whispers. “It’s complicated. It’s probably safer for you here anyway.”

“A man literally killed himself in your home and you have the nerve to say it’s safe here!?” George can feel his chest constricting painfully as panic starts to suffocate him. It’s not the man’s corpse that fills him with terror, but rather the idea that he’s stuck here now.

“I’m sorry. I’m only doing this because I love you and want to protect you.” 

“Fuck you.” George spits. His mouth tastes bitter and metallic.

“I’m sorry, George.”

“Stop apologizing and just let me go.” George sobs and sinks to the floor, but makes no attempt to run, because Clay is big and strong and has lethal weapons up his sleeves. _“Please.”_

“I’m sorry.” Clay says again and strokes George’s hair.

“Don’t touch me!” George wails even though he wants nothing more than for Clay to hold him and tell him everything will be okay.

“I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.” Clay murmurs. Behind him, the door locks with a deafening click and George is alone.

—

“Here, let me run you a bath. It’ll make you feel better.” Clay says gently, reassuringly.

George stares at the sink and wonders if this is where Clay washed the blood off his hands. 

“How are you feeling, baby?”

“Don’t call me that.” George tries to say, but it comes out as an indecipherable groan.

George lets Clay take some of his weight. He wonders when he’ll stop shaking. Maybe this is just his life now, maybe he’ll always be in the middle of a mental breakdown.

Eventually, the water fills up high enough and George steps in. Clay stays kneeling outside of the tub and doesn’t let go of George’s hand the entire time.

George’s isn’t sure why he’s letting himself be so compliant, but he’s too tired to put up a fight. 

The suds vaguely smell like lavender and the water is warm. It’s tempting, to just sink under the surface and let it smother him.

Somewhere, in a part of his mind that is still attached to his body, George registers that Clay is washing his hair. Clay’s fingers move deftly against his scalp and George can’t help but lean into the touch. Clay’s hands are strong and capable, and could easily wrap around George’s throat.

It takes until George’s fingers are wrinkled for him to understand the heaviness weighing on his mind. What remains is not fear, but guilt.

“I killed him.” George whispers once he’s in his softest pair of pajama pants and one of Clay’s sweatshirts. He is laying in bed next to Clay despite every instinct that screams at him to run. “He died and I didn’t do anything.”

And even though George knows that he wouldn’t have been able to do anything, he didn’t even _try_ , he didn’t even put up a fight. 

“You didn’t kill him. He killed himself.”

“You’re in no position to say that.” 

“Maybe, it doesn’t make it less true, though. Tell me, did _I_ kill him then?”

“I don’t know, Clay.” George snaps. “I still don’t understand what happened.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shut up.” George stares pointedly at the ceiling. 

Clay doesn’t answer.

“What did you do with the body?” George blurts out.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s over now.”

_“Clay.”_

“I _dealt_ with it, okay?” Clay says with a cold edge to his voice. 

“Don't give me that bullshit.” George whispers. 

Clay looks him dead in the eye. “I have a pretty big freezer in the garage.” 

George leans over the side of the bed and promptly throws up on the hardwood floor.

“Shit.” Clay mutters and hurries over to push George’s hair way from his face.

“Stop touching me.” George chokes out between retches. Tears are streaming down his face and spilling into the puddle of bright yellow bile on the floor. He gags and chokes and cries until he feels empty.

—

“Dude, you look rough.” Nick frowns.

“Okay, rude-ass.” George rolls his eyes. “You want me to turn off my camera or something?”

“George, I’m being serious. You look awful. Have you lost weight?” 

“Maybe.” George shrugs. He can’t remember the last time he ate, everything’s been fuzzy lately. He knows he had a turkey sandwich _That Day._

His life is divided into two parts: before and after he watched a man paint with his blood on baby pink walls. 

“What the fuck? Are you okay? Have you been sick?” Nick leans closer to the screen and squints. It’s moments like these that George realizes just how much Nick cares about him. Despite the teasing, despite how different they are, and even despite how much older George is. 

George can feel his eyes burn and pushes down a wave of emotion that threatens to swallow him. “Yeah. I’m okay.” George sighs. 

“Are you sure?” Nick presses.

George chews the inside of his cheek. He wishes he could tell Nick how he always feels like someone is watching him, or how he can’t sleep anymore, or how he can’t keep anything down. 

But he can’t, not just because Clay is listening, but because if he told Nick that, he’d have to tell him that despite the blood on Clay’s hands, he still loves him. Maybe George is the monster in this situation.

“You still there?” Nicks voice snaps him out of his thoughts. 

“Sorry, I zoned out for a minute.” In the corner of the room Clay is sitting in an armchair with his eyes closed, but George knows he’s awake and listening to every word. “I’m fine, really. I’ve just been busy lately. You don’t need to worry about me, I promise.”

Clay’s lips turn up slightly at the corners, and that’s how George knows he’s said the right thing. 

“I’m glad. You’re at Clay’s house still, right?” Nick smirks. “Had to extend the honeymoon, huh?”

“You’re so annoying.” George says flatly. He tries to remember how he would usually act, but all he draws are blanks. His mind is screaming at him to cry for help while he still can. It’s kind of distracting. 

“I’d be down to take a road trip and come visit y’all.” 

George forces a smile, just for the sake of maintaining the facade of normalcy. “I don’t know. It’s up to Clay, honestly.” His eyes wander to rest on Clay’s face. 

“Ask him for me. He’ll say yes to you. You have him wrapped around your finger, y’know.” 

Almost imperceptibly, Clay nods in affirmation. 

—

“Sure, Nick can visit. He is one of my childhood friends, after all. It’s long overdue that we all meet in person.” Clay smiles pleasantly.

“Great. I’ll let him know.” George pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“On one condition, though.” Clay places a hand on George’s wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hold him in place.

George’s stomach turns. “What is it?” He swallows roughly around the dread that immediately creeps up his esophagus.

“Everything that has happened between us, stays between us, okay?” 

“Of course.” George answers hurriedly, less out of agreement and more because he wants this conversation to be over as quickly as possible. “I promise.”

The hard glint in Clay’s eyes softens a bit and he smiles. “I knew I could trust you, George.” He leans in closer and George can feel Clay’s breath on his cheek.

“Yeah.”

“And you trust me.” Clay says firmly.

“You know I do.” George admits. He wishes he didn’t, but there’s something in his brain that is unwaveringly loyal to Clay no matter how much shit they go through.

Clay rests his forehead against George’s. “I love you.” He says breathily.

“Love you, too.” George manages meekly, saying it out of obligation rather than sincerity.

“No matter what?” Clay asks innocently, but there’s something angry in his eyes and feral in his kiss.

“No matter what.” George whispers against the bitter flavor of Clay’s lips.

—

“Where are you going?” George squints in the darkness and tries to make out Clay’s frame in the shadows of the room. 

“Nowhere.” Clay barks.

George rubs his eyes and tries to comprehend what’s happening with his sleep addled brain. “What?” 

“I won’t be long.” Clay says, more gentle this time.

“I’m coming with you.” George shoves his feet into his blue slippers and stumbles out of bed. 

“You’re not. _Please._ I know you haven’t been sleeping well lately. Just stay here and I’ll be back by the time you wake up.”

“Clay, if you trust me, let me come with you.” George pleads, though he isn’t sure why. “I love you, no matter what. Don’t you remember?”

“Fine. Meet me in the car in five. You’re not going to like this, though.” 

George shucks off his pajamas and throws on the nearest pair of sweatpants he sees. He’s not sure if he’s wearing matching socks, but he jams his feet into his sneakers by the door and jogs to Clay’s car.

They drive in silence. George isn’t sure where they’re going, but he doesn’t ask. Asking questions hasn’t worked out for him lately.

They pull into a deserted parking lot of what seems to be a park or nature preserve of some sort. George can’t see the water, but he can smell it, so he knows that they must be on the coast. 

Wordlessly, Clay gets out of the car and slams his door shut. George scrambles to unbuckle his seatbelt and follow Clay. When he gets out of the car, Clay has the trunk open and is placing several garbage bags on the ground. He wears thick leather gloves that look creased with use.

“Well? Are you going to help?” Clay asks gruffly, the words rumbling from his chest. 

George nods and tries not to choke on the fear in his chest. Clay tosses him a pair of gloves and George ignores that the bags smell like death, or how the gloves on his hands have probably touched cold, limp flesh. 

He’s gotten good at that: pretending everything is okay, ignoring what stares him in the face. It’s easy to just float through life when everything is made of inconsequential fallacies. 

They walk through the woods together and George doesn’t ask how Clay knows the route so well without a trail or even daylight. It’s not worth questioning it when he can tell that this is a path well-traveled. Branches smack George in the face and thorns pinch his arms, but he doesn’t even feel it. All he can see are shiny black trash bags and the gun in Clay’s holster. 

“Alright. We’re here.” Clay says quietly.

The land beneath their feet cuts off into a steep cliff that juts into the sea fifty feet below. The waves crash violently against the jagged rocks where the edge of the land meets the ocean. It wouldn’t be hard for Clay to push him off the edge. George is slow and weak and hopelessly—masochistically—in love with Clay. It would be easy for this to be the end.

The part of George’s brain that hungers for pain and destruction tells him that there’s something poetic, or even romantic, about being killed by your loved one. 

Clay then takes the bags from George and pulls a switchblade out of his pocket. It looks sharp and deadly in the twilight. For a moment, George is certain that Clay is going to stab him to death.

“You might want to look away.” Clay breathes huskily.

George doesn’t make him say it twice, and immediately averts his eyes. He knows what’s in the bags, but that doesn’t mean he wants to think about it or see it. If he doesn’t see it, he doesn’t have to acknowledge what’s real. He knows that he’s fooling himself, and he’d like to keep it that way.

George hears the knife slice through the plastic and the distant smack of _something_ hitting the water below. He stares at the moon and tries to forget that this is happening.

George loses time, but eventually Clay is shaking his shoulder with his bare hand. George licks his lips and blinks a few times. They’re back outside the car and George has to wonder if any of that even happened. He can’t remember the walk back from the cliff. But Clay’s hair is damp with the mist of the sea spray and George can only fool himself so much. 

“You okay?” Clay asks tenderly, and presses his lips sweetly against George’s forehead.

“I’m fine.” George chokes out and crashes into Clay. 

Automatically, Clay’s arms lock around his back and George is held close against Clay’s chest. 

“You’re okay.” Clay repeats, a bit more nervously this time.

“It’s kind of funny. Because I actually am fine.” George tilts his chin up to face Clay and feels his lips pull into something that hurts. He’s so far gone, his last shred of humanity consumed by pain. He feels vindictive and manic. “I don’t feel a thing.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be up by my friend’s birthday, but I’m a flop so I’m a day late :(
> 
> But I’m in time (BARELY) for Gogy’s birthday! So that’s better than nothing I guess. Though I wouldn’t say this is much of a birthday gift considering I wrote the beginnings of his fall into madness. 
> 
> This chapter was a bitch to get out, and I definitely could’ve edited it more, but I hope y’all liked it regardless!
> 
> Lastly, I’ve been absolutely blown away by the amount of support that I’ve received on this work. It gives me so much serotonin. Thank you for making this story worth writing :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for brief/unintentional self harm. If you think it’ll upset you cntrl+f from “Clay is louder“ to “George ends up driving.”
> 
> There will be more of this subject matter later in the story, and it will be more in-depth. If this chapter bothers you, please don’t continue. It only gets worse.
> 
> Be gentle with yourself :)

“I have something for you.”

“What is it?” George asks hesitantly when Clay hands him a sleek, black container. It’s a bit like a briefcase, or what a musician would carry a flute in.

“Open it. You’ll see.”

Reluctantly, George undoes the latches on the side. He braces himself for there to be something _alive_ in there, maybe a rattlesnake, maybe a stillborn fetus, maybe the impossibly beating heart of the man that killed himself in Clay’s house.

Instead, a pistol is nestled in a bit of foam. It’s a G17: matte and plain in appearance, but the words _‘I’ll always protect you,’_ are engraved along the barrel. It’s a gun that’s straight to the point—no frills or whistles—yet somehow its simplicity is what makes it particularly elegant. Reverently, George gently runs the pads of his fingers along the shallow indents of the words. The grip fits his hand perfectly. It feels right. It makes emotion swell in his chest.

“Do you like it? I wasn’t sure if you’d be a fan of the engraving since you’re more minimalistic when it comes to this stuff.” 

“Perfect.” George whispers and launches himself at Clay, hands clasped together behind Clay’s neck. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Are you crying?” Clay runs his fingers along George’s scalp.

“Shut up.” George sniffles. “This was just really sweet of you. I love you.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Clay presses a kiss to George’s forehead and George can feel the Clay-shaped space in his heart become just a bit more permanent. “I love you, too. But you knew that already.”

“The same goes for you.”

“Huh?” Clay looks down the slope of his nose at George, eyes dark and lids heavy.

“I’ll always protect you, too.” George says. And despite everything, he means it. That’s what best friends— _lovers—_ do, right? No matter what happens, remain ceaselessly loyal to each other. 

“Will you now?” Clay smirks teasingly. 

“Don’t be an ass.” George says and jokingly slots the pistol under Clay’s chin. “It’s not smart to insult a man with a gun.”

“Pull it.” Clay says, hand enveloping George’s own and flicking off the safety. “Show me who’s boss.”

“It’s not even loaded.” George whimpers when Clay’s grip tightens on his hand, willing his fingers towards the trigger. _“Right?”_

“Why don’t you find out?” Clay tilts his head back lazily, exposing the long, smooth column of his neck. “Pull the trigger, George.”

“You wouldn’t give me a loaded gun.” George’s fingers hover over the trigger. 

“I trust you.” Clay answers quietly and that’s how George _knows._

George kicks Clay in the shin, enough to stun him for a few seconds, and yanks his wrist away and flips the safety back on. 

“You’re such an idiot.” George punches Clay in the shoulder.

Clay laughs and dodges the slap George aims at his face. “Chill. Nothing happened.”

“You need to stop trying to get me to shoot you.” 

“I probably should.” Clay pecks George on the lips. “But I won’t.”

“What’s it going to take? Do I actually have to shoot you for you to stop?” George huffs. “This is ridiculous. This shouldn’t even be something up to debate.”

“You’d never shoot me. You _can’t.”_ Clay smiles, something sadistic in his grin. 

“You don’t know that.” George protests weakly, even though he knows it’s true. Something about that scares him, because he knows if it came down to it, he’d be the one with a bullet in his chest.

“Don’t worry.” Clay says, and George wonders if he can read minds. “You’d never need to. I’m always going to protect you, remember?”

“I trust you.” George let's Clay sink his teeth into his bottom lip. Clay slips his tongue into George’s mouth and George goes pliant in Clay’s arms. Clay has been his safe space for a while.

“I know.” Clay whispers when they pull away. 

—

“How have I been?” George wonders out loud as he reads the comment.

Images of blood-slick fingers and matte-black guns flash through his mind. Yet, simultaneously, he can only focus on how loved he feels, how Clay will tangle their legs together in bed and whisper sweet nothings against kiss-swollen lips.

“Great.” George answers. “I’ve been great.” 

He thinks he means it. 

“Yeah. I’m still at Clay’s house.” George shrugs, responding to the chat. “I like it here.” 

As George answers more questions, he realizes how much he misses his home. His friends, his family, even his pets, are all in Brighton. The only thing tethering him to Florida is Clay. 

And yet he still can’t convince himself to want to leave.

—

“Christ, your hair is getting long.” George grabs the chode-like ponytail that rests at the crown of Clay’s head. His hair is getting closer to mullet length, but not quite long enough to have a solid man bun. 

“What, you don’t like it?” Clay smirks. “Does this weird half-up situation not do it for you?”

“No. I like it.” George likes it more than he’s willing to admit. He likes how Clay wears a headband when he washes his face and ties his hair up when they’re working in the yard. Most of all, George likes it when Clay’s hair is loose and unstyled, curling behind his hair and perfect for George to run his fingers through.

“What if I got a haircut? Would you still like it then?”

“Yeah. It’s you, of course I’d still like it.” George gives the hair-chode another appreciative squeeze. “What were you thinking?”

“For my hair? An undercut. I probably can’t pull it off though, but it’s whatever.” Clay shrugs.

“You’re going to look so fucking hot.” George slaps a hand over his mouth. “I mean. Yeah, it’ll look good.”

“What? You have an undercut fetish or something?” Clay laughs teasingly.

“Absolutely not.” George lies through his teeth. 

“Sure.” Clay looks annoyingly smug. “Want to go into town tonight? We can get dinner and then head to the barber after.”

“I’m down, but why tonight? Your hair is already long, what’s the rush at this point?”

“Nick’s arriving tomorrow and I need to have that fresh cut for my boy.” Clay says, voice far too serious.

“You did not just say that.” George scoffs. “Ew. Delete yourself.”

“Come on, last one out the door is a rotten egg. Speedrun this shit.”

“Idiot. I’m dating an idiot.” George mutters to himself, but smiles nonetheless.

—

  
  


_“This just in!”_ The calm music playing in the barber shop is interrupted by a shrill, female voice. _“The remains of Connor Jackson, who is one of the main suspects of being the Florida Fiend, were found just off the coast. Stay tuned for further updates.”_

—

Clay has barely paid the barber when George grabs him by the wrist and drags him out to the car. 

“Explain.” George demands.

“What?” 

“Don’t play dumb. You heard the radio. Remains off the coast.” George says hurriedly as he resists the urge to vomit. “That night… was that him?”

“Are you asking me if the man who fucking killed himself on my property was Connor Jackson?” 

“Quit stalling, Clay.”

“Relax. That wasn’t him.” Clay says.

“How do you know?” George furrows his brow.

“Because that man was Jack Hill—not Connor whoever-the-fuck!” Clay yells. “I know the man that killed himself in my sister’s room, because I fucking hate him! I’ve wanted him dead for so long and I wasn’t even the one that got to kill him!” 

“Clay.” George says nervously and presses his back against the car door. 

“You want to know why? Huh?!” Clay screams. “He killed her! He fucking killed my sister! Is that what you wanted to know?!”

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to explain.” George tries to say, but Clay is louder.

“He fucking stalked her for _years!_ I tried to protect her, to keep her safe, but I couldn’t. The only thing he hated more than the idea of not having her was someone else having her. _So he fucking murdered her!”_ Clay claws at his own arms and George tries to pry his fingers away. 

“Clay, stop. You’re hurting yourself.” George pleads and pulls at Clay’s hands. 

“Is that what you wanted to know?” Clay croaks brokenly. He buries his face in his hands. Small rivulets of blood run down his arms. 

“I’m sorry.” George whispers. He knows he doesn’t have the full picture, but he doesn’t need it. Clay is hurting, and that’s all George needs to know. 

George ends up driving them back to Clay’s house, even though he’s sitting on the _wrong_ side of the car on the _wrong_ side of the road.

Clay doesn’t say anything until they’re sitting in the bathtub together. It was the only thing George could think to do to comfort Clay, but it seems to have worked.

“I’m sorry.” Clay says quietly. “I shouldn’t have yelled like that. It’s just hard for me to talk about this.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you to that point.”

“It’s not your fault. I should’ve explained before. I can tell you more if you want?” Clay says, but he looks like that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“It’s okay.” George says gently. “I trust you. I don’t need to know anything else.”

“Thank you.” Clay smiles at him, small but genuine. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” George takes Clay’s hand. “I also love your haircut, it looks great.”

“You think so?” 

“Yeah. It’s sexy.”

“Shut up.” Clay rolls his eyes.

George stares at the water, but then something occurs to him. “Shit. The water. They found that guy dead in the water.”

“The Florida Fiend is dead.” Clay shrugs. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“That’s not the problem. They’re looking in the water for human remains now. They’re going to scour the coast for more evidence of what happened”

“They won’t find anything. At least, not anything of use.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’ll try to say it gently: the body is unidentifiable. I don’t want to get into specifics, but you don’t need to worry about it.”

“Right.” George swallows. He decides that however Clay mutilated the body is the least pressing issue he’s facing in the grand scheme of things. 

Clay motions for him to turn around and George leans into Clay’s chest. He lets his eyes close and tries not to think about murder.

—

“Bro.” Nick lets out a low whistle and steps out of his car. “Your house is on that big-big shit.”

“Land’s cheap.” Clay shrugs. “Might as well, right?”

“It’s cheap in Texas, too. You must be making bank off the YouTube grind.” 

“YouTube pays well. Twitch isn’t bad either.” Clay shrugs. “I have a side hustle, too.”

“The fuck? You selling vapes to middle schoolers or something?” Nick laughs.

“No, you asshole. Investments.” Clay rolls his eyes. “Come on, George is waiting for us inside.”

“Sounds like some mafia shit.” Nick mutters but follows Clay into the foyer.

“Hey, Nick.” George grins.

“George! Don’t be a stranger, gimme some sugar, hottie.” Nick opens his arms and makes grabby hands at George.

“Is this what you do to girls? No wonder they don’t like you.” George teases, but returns Nick’s hug. 

It’s their first time meeting in person, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like coming home.

“Shut up. You act like you guys don’t have to date each other because no one else will.” Nick laughs.

“You told him?” George hisses and elbows Clay in the side. 

“No?” Clay looks at Nick accusingly.

“Are you kidding me? You guys are so disgusting on stream. Clay doesn’t even need to show his face for it to be obvious. You might as well just rail each other on camera at this point.” 

“As if.” George scoffs. “You’re just jealous.”

“Why would _I_ be jealous? If anything—“

“Oh. My. God.” Clay groans. “You guys somehow fight even more in person than you do online. I should’ve known.”

“We aren’t fighting.” George mumbles.

“Sure.” Clay smirks. 

“God, I’m tired.” Nick complains. “Did you know it’s a fifteen fucking hour drive? I sure didn’t.”

“George, why don’t you take Nick to the guest room? I’ll get started on dinner, or something.” 

“Sure.” George motions for Nick to follow.

“Ew. Y’all are domestic as fuck.” Nick fake gags once they’re out of Clay’s earshot.

“Shut up.” George says, because Nick is _right._ They are kind of gross.

“Not gonna lie, looks like a psych ward in here. Could just be the sleep deprivation speaking, though.”

“Guest room isn't much better.” George opens the door to a room that is plain and sterile looking. The only thing missing is the bitter scent of disinfectant. “It’s better with the blinds open. Here, I’ll do it. Clay has these weird high-tech windows.”

George approaches the window, but then he’s flat on the floor and can’t remember how he got there. 

“George? Fuck, I’ll get Clay.” Nick looks scared. It’s strange to see an emotion on his face that isn’t underscored by cockiness. It reminds George just how young Nick really is.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” George forces himself to sit up and ignores how he blacks out for a few seconds. “Just tripped.”

“What the fuck? I literally just saw you faint. Don’t give me that bullshit. You’re not okay.” Nick’s eyes are serious and George feels transparent. He wonders if Nick can tell that he’s averaging an hour of sleep each night and living off of fun-size boxes of raisinettes from Clay’s pantry. “You’re already a skinny guy, you look sick.”

“I’m _fine.”_ George insists even though his piss has become neon green from the amount of energy drinks he consumes. It’s not that he can’t sleep, it’s that he’s terrified that something bad will happen while he’s sleeping. Or how he can’t close his eyes without feeling the coldness of Clay’s pistol at the nape of his neck. 

“Dude…”

“Drop it, Nick.” George gives him a steely glance. “Clay is making dinner. We’re going to go eat with him and everything is going to be fine, okay?”

“Please don’t make me regret keeping this between us.” Nick sighs. 

“I won’t.” George promises, but even he knows it’s an empty one. 

—

“You’re shorter in person, Nick.” Clay says at the dinner table. “You’re definitely being generous saying that you’re 5’10.” 

“You act like George isn’t, like, 5’8 at best.” Nick huffs.

“Whatever.” George sets his fork down. Immediately, Nick kicks him in the shin and sends him a pointed look. George ignores him.

“Hey, George’s height is great.” Clay says, somewhere between joking and possessive. “I love it. Ten out of ten.”

“You’re such an idiot.” George smiles, and laces their hands together across the table. 

“Excuse me while I—“ Nick fake retches into his soup. 

“Douchebag.” Clay snorts. “Cut it out.”

Nick flashes Clay the finger and George feels vaguely like a middle school teacher. 

—

“You have a gun?” Nick glances at the Glock sitting casually on the couch, and then back at Clay’s face. “Since when?”

“That’s actually George’s, but yeah. I have a few.” Clay shrugs. “I forgot to ask you, what’s it been like in Houston after the election?”

“What the fuck? You can’t just say, ‘yeah I have weapons’ and then start asking me about Joe Biden.” 

“Why not? It’s not a big deal. I have some. I gifted George one. It’s fine.” Clay replies placidly.

“It’s not a big deal, I guess. I just thought you supported gun control.” Nick says accusingly. “And what’s with George? He’s literally British.”

“I support gun control and I own guns. They can coexist.” Clay answers simply. “I don’t get why you’re being so weird about it, though.”

“Because you literally don’t need to own guns, Clay. This is how school shootings happen—people that don’t need to have guns have them anyway.”

“I’m not going to shoot up a school, dumbass.” Clay says lowly. “And I have a right to protect myself.”

“From _what?!”_ Nick exclaims. “Fucking armadillos?”

Instantaneously, Clay is in Nick’s face, pressing him against the wall. “Have you considered that it’s none of your business? I’ve been through things that you don’t know about, Nick. Things that you’re not _going_ to know about.”

Nick glances at the gun, before snapping his eyes back to look at Clay. 

“What?” Clay smiles, but there’s something sinister about it. “You afraid I’m going to shoot you.”

“No.” Nick says immediately, because it seems wise not to antagonize the Armed Man. This isn’t his friend, this isn’t Clay. This is a man that Nick has never met before and prays he will never meet again.

“Exactly. Because I’m a good gun owner and wouldn’t shoot someone that I care about.” Clay grins manically and carelessly snatches the gun off the couch. He points it at Nick’s chest.

Nick doesn’t know much about guns, but he thinks that Clay just flipped the safety off.

“Clay, what the hell are you doing?” George looks tired and is wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt. He probably just woke up, but a fire burns in his eyes and he holds himself straighter than Nick has seen since he arrived. 

“Nothing.” Clay says simply, but doesn’t lower the gun. “I’m just proving to Nick that I’m a good gun owner.”

George steps in front of Nick and lets Clay rest the gun on his sternum. “I don’t care what you think you were accomplishing, but you can’t just point guns at your friends.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Huh?” George takes a step back towards Nick, but the gun follows.

“You have a thing for Nick? Is that it?” Clay sneers.

“Are you insane? No. He’s my friend. And he’s supposed to be your friend too.”

“Prove it, then. Tell me you love me.”

“Put the gun down.” George answers just as coldly. 

Clay seems like he isn’t going to waver, but then he gives the gun to George who immediately pockets it. 

“Come here, Clay.” George whispers. 

Clay towers over George, but bends down so he can hide his face in the crook of George’s neck. 

“I love you.” George says. Clay starts crying.

Nick feels uncomfortable and afraid. Because what the fucking fuck.

“I’m sorry.” Clay turns to face Nick, eyes red with tears. “I’ll be back in a bit. I’m going outside to cool off for a little while.”

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.” George grabs Clay’s hand on the way out the door. 

“I’ll be fine.” Clay insists, green eyes watery but sincere. He presses a tender kiss to George’s forehead. “Nick is probably pretty shaken up. Please make sure he knows I apologize.” 

“I will.” 

—

“George. You’ve got to get out of here. Let me help get you out of here. I can take you back with me to Houston or something. All I know is that you can’t stay here.” Nick says hurriedly as soon as the door closes behind Clay.

“Why? Clay isn’t dangerous.” 

“Don’t tell me you actually believe that. He just pointed a gun at the both of us.”

“It’s complicated…” George trails off. “Clay has some issues, but he’s not a bad person. And he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. I can promise you that.”

“How can you say that? He’s clearly unstable. Normal people don’t have violent outbursts like that.” 

“You’re shaking.” George says.

“No, shit!” Nick screeches. “I’m fucking terrified!”

“I’m sorry.” George sighs. “Clay feels bad, too. You know?”

“I don’t know.” Nick deadpans. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“It’s okay.” George pulls Nick into a hug. 

“I don’t even know who you are anymore.” Nick admits. “The George I know would never own a gun. The George I know would’ve left this place a long time ago.”

George feels himself freeze. He opens his mouth to respond but no words come. Nick is right. Even George doesn’t recognize the man in the mirror anymore.

“George let me get you out, _please_. You’re dying here. You’re going to kill yourself if he doesn’t kill you first.” Nick pleads.

“I’ll think about it, okay? That’s all I can give you right now.” 

Nick looks worn and defeated, but he nods solemnly. “Okay. At any moment, if you decide you want out, I’ll be here. I don’t care if I’m in Texas, I don’t care that I’ve known Clay longer than I’ve known you. You’re my best friend, and I’ll love you forever, okay?” 

“Okay.” George says even though he knows he’s already made the wrong decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and wonderful comments. Y’all are too kind :,) 
> 
> I’m still responding to comments on ch4 but trust me, I’ve read every single one!
> 
> Woohoo! Plot! Sippycup! Yay! Probably didn’t proofread enough but wanted to get this out in celebration of no more Tr*mp. :)
> 
> Sapnap is easier than the others for me to characterize and idek why LOL maybe I am him hmmm ever think of that?
> 
> Jack hill is definitely my neurons misfiring and going Jack and Jill...went up the hill...hill!... JACK HILL
> 
> Connor Jackson is also definitely NOT my friend’s asshole bf that is the biggest misogynist I’ve ever met. Definitely not. :)
> 
> The thing about neon green piss is 100% real. Don’t drink too many monsters, it WILL happen.


	6. Chapter 6

“You want to plant some tomatoes with me?”

“What?” Nick sets down his phone. _“Tomatoes?”_

George grins. “Clay has this planter out back that he never uses. I’ve never planted anything since the weather in England is ass, so why not? It’s going to be fun.”

“Why tomatoes, though? They’re fucking nasty.” Nick wrinkles his nose, but stands from the couch.

“I like them.” 

“Well, _you_ would.” Nick mutters.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Nick laughs and follows George out the back door. “Okay, where the hell is this shit?”

Set carefully on a tarp in front of the planter are two pairs of gardening gloves and some gardening supplies. Small tomato plants sit cheerfully in their plastic cartons.

George hands Nick the red gloves and keeps the blue gloves for himself. 

“Hey, why do you get the blue gloves?” Nick complains.

“I literally cannot see the other ones.” George deadpans.

“It’s not like being colorblind makes them invisible.” Nick mutters but pulls on the gloves anyway.

“Okay, so I read a WikiHow on this. Here, loosen up the soil or something.” George says and passes Nick a tool.

“Huh? What even is this thing?”

“It’s a hoe.” George says dryly.

“Like, from Minecraft?”

“Oh my god. You did not just say that.”

“What?”

“Hoes are real things, Nick. They exist outside of a fucking video game.” George guffaws.

“I knew that.” Nick grumbles. 

“Sure.” George is still bent over laughing. “Stab the dirt or something with it.” 

“Asshat.” Nick says, but complies.

George kneels down beside Nick and they get to work, pulling weeds, preparing the soil, and making little holes that they nestle the tomato plants into. They work in amicable silence, with Nick humming under his breath. Even though Nick misses every note, George still loves it. Nick is easy to be around in all the ways that Clay isn’t. 

The thought settles uncomfortably in the back of George’s mind, because part of him knows that Clay isn’t good for him. And even just as friends, that Nick could give him so much more.

“Hey, you got something there.” Nick says, snapping George out of his thoughts.

“Where?” 

_“There.”_ Nick repeats and smears a clump of mud across George’s forehead. Immediately, he gets up and sprints toward the woods.

“You’re so, ugh!” George groans, but can’t help to smile. It’s the most alive he’s felt in a long time.

(If George had been looking, he would’ve seen Clay lurking beneath the shade of a willow tree. He would’ve seen the cruel smile on his face, and the seething jealousy in his eyes. Because Clay is always watching, and always has been.)

—

“George, what’s that room at the end of the hall?” 

“The one with the passcode lock?” George asks Nick. 

“Yeah. What’s Clay hiding in there?” 

“He has his security system set-up in there, it’s really not that exciting.” George shrugs, repressing the image of bloodied walls.

“How do you know? Do you know the passcode?” Nick asks conspiratorially. 

“I’ve been in there before, and no, I don’t know the passcode.” George glances over his shoulder briefly. Clay’s at the store, but most of the cameras in the house are equipped with microphones, too.

“You’d think it was Clay’s sex dungeon or something.” Nick chortles.

Wordlessly, George motions for Nick to follow him into the kitchen. There’s a dead spot, for both audio and video by the oven. George wonders how Clay hasn’t noticed it after all this time.

“I couldn’t get into the room on my own, so I hacked into the cloud that stores the security footage.” George feels bad for betraying Clay’s trust, but tells himself that he was never specifically told _not_ to hack into the security system

“Dude, how?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I just played around with some shit until it worked.” George is an experienced programmer, but he still only knows what he’s doing ten percent of the time.

“That’s fair.” Nick laughs. 

—

Clay comes home covered in blood and dirt late that night, a wicked sharp knife dangling carelessly from his fingertips.

“Hunting.” He says, even though George knows that Clay only uses rifles to hunt, and it’s too dark outside for hunting to even be viable.

“Right.” George bites his tongue. He doesn’t ask any questions and tries not to entertain any of his own suspicions. He likes it more this way. It’s better to not ask questions about things he knows he won’t like the answers to. He’s not stupid, after all. He knows what’s happening even if he can’t admit to himself.

Clay presses a bloodied finger to his lip and George nods. It’s probably best that they don’t wake Nick. 

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” George hears himself whisper. Everything feels like a dream, floaty and inconsequential. 

George gently scrubs the grime from Clay’s calloused palms and massages shampoo into his scalp. If George wasn’t so nauseated, it would almost feel romantic. Eventually, Clay is clean of blood and the pink stained water runs clear. But still, the metallic scent of blood lingers in George’s nose. It makes him want to gag.

He lets Clay press a grateful kiss to his lips and tries to convince himself that he can’t taste a stranger’s blood on Clay’s teeth. 

_—_

“George, do you still have access to the security footage from last night?” 

“Why?” George feels his stomach turn.

“I don’t know, I just heard some weird noises outside last night, so I was wondering what it was.” 

George can still taste blood on his tongue, and can’t forget the blade that Clay held. He can’t let Nick see that footage. 

“It was probably just the wildlife. The animals are scary around here?” George shrugs.

“You’re literally a terrible liar. Come on, what are you hiding? Just show me the footage.” 

George opens his mouth to protest, to lie, to divert, but nothing comes. He has no more fight left in him. He’s tired. Distantly, he recalls that he wasn’t always like this, he used to be witty and cunning. He used to be more than just a shell.

“Okay.” George answers quietly. “When did you hear the noises?”

“Around midnight.” 

George scrolls through hours of footage until he gets to the correct minute mark. The cameras in the backyard are night vision, and cast a weird sheen over everything. But still, even in the pitch darkness, the image is clear and distinct. 

George presses play.

Thirty minutes pass without a hitch. The raccoon that keeps eating their garbage emerges from the woods and then leaves a few minutes later with a banana peel in its maw. A few palmettos pass in front of the camera. Everything is as it should be. 

They watch for a few more minutes and George is about ready to throw in the towel. He wonders if maybe he imagined it all. It’s an unnerving thought, but not impossible. His mind has been betraying him lately, after all.

“Wait. The fuck is that?” Nick jabs his finger at the screen. In the distance, a large, dark _something_ cloaked in shadows emerges from the left side of the frame. _Another dead spot,_ George notes. He’s starting to wonder if it’s intentional.

George squints and tries to understand what he’s looking at. It’s hard to tell at first, but as the figure nears the camera he realizes it’s unmistakably human. A man of Clay's build is carrying what could be a human over his shoulder. 

George spares a glance at Nick, who looks frozen to the spot. Both warm sympathy and burning hot anger come over him briefly. It’s startling, to feel some variety of emotion.

The figure nears the tool shed that sits snugly between two birch trees and carelessly throws the person to the ground. The sound is muffled, but George can still hear the thump through the speakers of his laptop. 

After a few minutes, the man emerges again, with a blade that George immediately recognizes: long, sharp, and sickle-like. 

The man then crouches above the body. His back is facing the camera and his facial features are indistinguishable, but George knows it’s Clay. 

Somehow though, even though he knows, he can’t admit it to himself. It’s strange that the knowledge that it is Clay can coexist in his mind with the belief that it isn’t.

“What the fuck?” Nick is gripping the table with a white knuckled grip. 

George focuses back on the screen and realizes that he must’ve spaced out for a while. The man is starting to saw mangled limbs from the torso of the person in the dirt. Dark patches stain the tall grass and it takes George a moment to realize that it’s blood. 

“I’m going to throw up.” Nick says and George immediately slams his laptop shut. He doesn’t need to keep watching to know what’s next.

Regret churns in George’s stomach. He let Nick see too much, he should’ve been more careful.

“Shit. I should’ve stopped playing it sooner.” George apologizes.

Nick doesn’t answer. He looks pale and horrified. George can’t blame him for it.

“Are you okay?” George asks hesitantly. Because Nick is obviously not okay. 

Nick hangs his head and curses under his breath. “Get out.”

“What?” 

“You need to get out of here.” 

“Nick, I already told you that I’d think about it.”

“You need to make up your mind real quick, then. Because you can’t stay here.”

“I’m fine.” George replies weakly. “Everything’s okay.”

Nick ignores him. “Something bad is happening here, George. I don’t know what the fuck that was, but I know Clay is involved with it.”

“How? How are you so sure?” George snaps, feeling oddly defensive. “You couldn’t even see his face.”

“What the hell? Why are you protecting him?” 

“I just don’t think it’s him.” George lies. “It can’t be him. He was with me last night.”

“Whatever. That doesn’t change the fact that you can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”

George doesn’t answer, because what would he even say? Nick is right. He’s not safe here.

“Jesus Christ, why aren’t you freaking out? We just saw a fucking corpse get violently mutilated, and you seem fine.”

“I’m not _fine,_ okay?” George exclaims. “I just…” 

“You just what?” Nick pushes. 

George bites the inside of his cheek and thinks it would be a bad idea to mention that he’s not freaking out because he’s seen so much worse. Because he’s _done_ so much worse. 

“I don’t know.” George mumbles after some time.

“You have to get out of here. I’m serious.”

“I can’t, Nick. I’m sorry.” George says softly.

For a moment, Nick looks impossibly saddened. “I can’t convince you to come with me, can I?”

“I can fix this.” George insists. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Are you insane? You’re in denial if you think anything about this is fixable.” Nick sighs. “But, if it ever comes down to it, you have me, okay? I promise. I’ll protect you.”

“Thank you.” George whispers. Nick pulls him into a hug and George tries not to cry. “I’m sorry.”

—

_“George!”_ A voice hisses. _“George, wake the fuck up!”_

“Huh?” George slurs groggily. “What time is it?”

The sun is low in the sky and the clouds are awash with the pale orange of an autumn sunset.

Nick ignores him. “Clay’s out right now. Come with me, we can leave.”

“Where’d he go?” George immediately asks. He frowns and wonders why Clay didn’t tell him he was going anywhere.

“I don’t know? He just said _‘out.’_ Does it even matter? Just come with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Just let me sleep.” George groans. 

“I hate you.” Nick sighs. “Guess we’re doing this the hard way.”

“What are you doing?!” George scrambles out of bed as Nick yanks his external hard drive out of his laptop. George knows the video he was working on probably was corrupted in the process, but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s not like he’s made any content that he’s proud of lately.

However, on that drive are hundreds of other files that he actually cares about. Favorite videos that he made before everything became so complicated, pictures of his family—just generally things that he wants to hold on to.

“Giving you an incentive.” Nick replies and bolts down the hallway before George can respond.

“What the fuck?” George mutters and jogs after Nick.

When George finds him, Nick is sitting in the gravel at the front of his car, stupid hard drive still clutched in his hands. Clay’s car is also parked in the driveway and George wonders if he just got back. 

“Nick?” George asks from where he lingers apprehensively by the front door. 

“My tires.” Nick says lowly.

And that’s when George sees it. All four of Nick’s tires are slashed.

George approaches Nick and kneels beside him. Carved into the rubber of one of the front tires is a message: _Going so soon?_

“Clay did this.” Nick mutters. “Fucking bastard slashed my tires.”

“He wouldn’t have.” George says defensively. “We can watch the security footage later. I’m sure it was someone else.”

“Are you stupid, George?” Nick barks. “Who else would do this? Who else would even know that I was planning on leaving?”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation.” George says meekly.

“Hey! Everything okay out there?” Clay calls, emerging from the front seat of his own car. He gives Nick’s car a once over and grimaces. “Yikes, that looks rough.”

“You fucking slashed my tires!” Nick yells, but it sounds strangled, almost like he’s about to cry. 

The gravel crunches beneath Clay’s boots, the distinct sound of a predator stalking its prey.

“What?” Clay laughs. “You think that I did that?”

“I know you did.” Nick’s breathing is ragged with poorly suppressed rage.

“Ouch. That’s kind of rude.”

“Stop playing mind games, Clay. I know it was you.”

“How?” Clay smirks. 

“You son of a—“

“You should head inside, George.” Clay turns to face George, his expression immediately softening.

“Why?” George asks shakily. His fingers twitch toward where he has his gun hidden in the waistband of his pants. He’s been so on edge lately that he feels like something is out of place if it’s not on him. 

Clay must see the fear in George’s eyes. “Don’t worry. Nick and I are just going to have a _talk_. Man to man.” 

George swallows and nods. He nearly trips over his own feet on his way back inside. 

Nick flashes him a betrayed look and George wants to cry. 

George rushes to open his laptop as quickly as his shaking hands can manage. He enlarges the feed from the camera in the front yard. The audio is faint and poor quality, but George can still hear them. 

“I’m gonna level with you, Nick. I thought having you visit was going to go a lot better than this.” Clay drawls. “I tried to turn a blind eye, but all you’ve done is cause trouble.”

“I haven’t done shit.”

“Keep saying that. It won’t make it true.” Clay grins sinisterly. “I invited you because George trusts you. Because I thought I could trust you.”

“You’re the one here that can’t be trusted.” Nick snaps.

Clay barks a laugh. “Everything was great until you got here. We were better off without you.” 

“If you want me gone so much, then why’d you slash my tires.” 

“You seem so certain that it was me. How do you know that you haven’t made other _enemies?”_ Clay sneers menacingly.

“Don’t give me that.” Nick crosses his arms protectively. 

“You’re smart, Nick. Smarter than you act, smarter than others think.” 

“Then, I’m smart enough to know that you’re toxic. You’re killing George. You’re ruining him.”

“Shut up.” 

“He’s not eating, he’s not sleeping. If you actually cared about him you’d let him go.”

“You don’t know shit about what’s happening here.” Clay says. “You have a lot of nerve to try to ruin my relationship, on my fucking land. To try to _steal_ George away from me.”

“You _know_ that’s not what I’m trying to do here, Clay.” Nick grits out. “He’s my _friend_. That’s why I’m trying to protect him from you.”

“From me?” Clay scoffs. “I’ve seen how you look at him. I know that you’ve had a thing for him for years—you said it yourself. But I’ve been patient, so you have no right to barge in now. Your time has passed, Nick.”

“Fine. Just know that when George finally breaks, it’ll be all your fault.” Nick nearly growls. “I’m leaving.”

“I don’t think so.” Clay says evenly. He lifts up the corner of his shirt, revealing tanned skin and a semi-automatic weapon. “You’re a liability. Infatuation left unresolved is dangerous. I’ve seen it first hand. I lost my sister to it, but I’m _not_ losing George.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get it through your head, Nick. One way or another, _you’re never leaving.”_

“Is that a threat?”

“No. Not a threat. A threat would be baseless.” Clay replies as he points the pistol at Nick. “So, I’d be real careful right now. Nothing about this is baseless.”

George’s heart feels like it’s in his throat and he’s sprinting through the house before he can fully process what’s happening. 

“Clay!” George screams. “Stop it!”

“George?” Clay’s eyes flicker towards George momentarily. His gaze is tender yet vindictive. A man scorned is a man to be feared. 

“Please. Just put down the gun.” George pleads. “We can talk about this.”

George wants to scream at Nick to run, but he knows he wouldn’t get very far, because Clay has impeccable aim and murderous tendencies.

“Baby. Go back inside, okay?” Clay says sweetly, voice laced with honey, as he flips the safety off. “Make yourself some tea.”

George’s hands are clammy against the handle of the gun as he fumbles with it. But eventually he has it raised and pointed forward. 

“Please, don’t make me do this.” He dry sobs. Overwhelmed and desperate. _“Please._ If you love me. _Please.”_

“I’m sorry. I hope you know that.” Clay says, but the tendons in George’s arm are taut and his grip on his Glock is unwavering.

Nick’s breath is shallow, and his eyes are panicked. George sees himself in Nick, back when he had yet to give up. 

It happens in both an instant and a dreadful eternity. A shot goes off, untempered and deafening in the crisp November air. Birds erupt from a tree in a whirlwind of darkness and cacophony of squawks. 

George feels his knees give out and the sharpness of gravel against his cheek.

In that moment he knows that nothing will ever be the same again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you so much for the support, it really keeps me writing! I just finished responding to comments on chapter 4, but I’ll respond to the ones on chapter 5 soon! Thanks again to everyone who made my day just a bit brighter :)
> 
> I’ve been very stressed lately. Lucky for you I write a lot when I’m very stressed. Unlucky for you I don’t edit as much when I’m very stressed. 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter! One of my insecurities about it is I feel that my story is becoming predictable. It’s probably just because I know what’s going to happen before I write it, though LMAO
> 
> I purposely left the ending kind of ambiguous. I don’t want it to be clear who was shot. Yes Gogy fell, but was he shot? Idk. 
> 
> Next chapter probably won’t be out until at least Wednesday if not later. I hope to see you then!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suicide Squad is a shit movie but I couldn’t stop thinking about this when I was writing this chapter. It’s a shame it was cut from the final movie, it’s one of the few palatable scenes.
> 
> https://youtu.be/e-TqAOmE_v4
> 
> I also saw Joker!Dream fanart and I’ll never be okay again. I’m feral.

The blood is thick and dark on the gravel. It weaves its way into the grooves of the rocks and stains the dirt. There’s a lot of it. More than George thought there would be. There’s something oddly mesmerizing about watching the blood escape from the wound. But looking at it spill onto the ground, it’s a bit strange to think that it’s something of importance. That this strange liquid is the essence of life.

Nick groans and rolls on his side. He sounds like he’s trying to speak but all that comes out are strange gurgling noises. His white t-shirt is stained red, burgundy spreading across the fabric. Nick clutches at his side, but it does nothing to stifle the flow of blood.

“You shot him.” George says shakily. His heart feels like it’s in his throat and his vision is blurred with fear. 

“You’re really cute, aren’t you? Pointing a gun at me.” Clay smirks viciously. “It’s baby’s day out.”

“You shot Nick.” George repeats, because even he’s not sure if it actually happened. “You hurt him.”

“And what about it? Huh, George?” Clay laughs vindictively. 

“You’re sick.” George hisses. For the first time, he looks at Clay and really _sees_ him. The man before him is someone he doesn’t recognize and yet is simultaneously the person dearest to him. “You’re fucked in the head, Clay.”

“Probably.” Clay grins. “And yet you’re still here. It’s funny, isn’t it?”

Nick makes a weird slurring noise and George goes into autopilot. He struggles to scramble to his feet, weighed down by devastation. He kneels by Nick’s side and presses his hands against the gash while Clay does absolutely nothing. The wound is unpleasantly squishy and wet. If George presses hard enough he can feel the bullet still inside Nick. But it’s deep, closer to forming an exit wound than to where it entered his torso. 

George doesn’t know much about gunshot wounds, but he prays it missed organs and any other important shit.

“Relax. He’s not going to die. Probably.” 

_“You shot him.”_ George reiterates for what feels like the hundredth time. “You could’ve killed him, Clay.

“God, you’re being annoying.” Clay huffs. “If I really wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be breathing. Don’t be so naive.” 

George keeps his hands pressed firm against Nick’s wound, but red continues to blossom from the space just below his heart. Blood spills between George’s fingers and his hands slip against the fabric. The flesh shifts and red spurts beneath Nick’s shirt, it makes a squelching noise that will probably haunt George for the rest of his life. He lets out a sob of frustration and rights his hands again, but there’s so much blood. _There’s_ _too much blood._

“Stop crying.” Clay says gruffly. “I don’t like it when you cry.” 

It only makes George cry harder.

Without warning Clay forcibly shoves him away from Nick. George’s back hits the gravel and his head smacks the dirt. He watches helplessly as Clay scoops up Nick and carries him over his shoulder.

“Be careful with him!” George begs, words warping around his sobs. He follows after Clay into the house, leaving bloody handprints along the pristine white walls.

Clay recklessly throws Nick down onto the dining room table, and his head hits the surface with a sickening sound. George feels his knees go weak and his stomach lurch. He wonders how fate could have led him here when he plays video games for a living. It’s a strange thought and it makes hysterical laughter bubble up into his chest. Somehow he’s living a life that’s everything he never wanted, nightmarish beyond anything he could’ve imagined.

Nick’s breathing, but barely. He’s wheezing for the most part, choking on the body of death slithering down his throat. Air rattles in his chest in a horrible cacophony of pain. Still, George holds onto the fact that at least Nick is still alive enough to breathe, even if he’s doing it poorly.

Clay ignores him and opens up his phone. “I have a favor I need to cash in on.” 

Nick’s head lolls to the side and he seems conscious, but barely. George goes back to his side and presses against the wound with a dish towel. Blood stains the cat designs that pattern the rag and the heady scent of Nick’s blood invades his senses. It’s familiar.

“I don’t give a shit if you’re busy.” Clay snarls. From his phone comes indecipherable crackling commotion. “Listen. You’re going to be here within the hour.”

The person on the other end of the line is loud and angry. 

“You have a daughter, right? Goes to that school near the bay. Would be a real shame if something happened to her, yeah?” Clay grins. “You know I wouldn’t do anything. _But I could._ I’d have nothing to lose.” 

Tendrils of fear mixed with nausea bite at the back of George’s throat. He wonders if Clay would actually kill a child. An innocent young girl caught in the crossfire.

Clay hangs up and pockets his phone. He spreads his arms grandly. “I’m a master of persuasion.” He brags. 

“I hate you.” George spits even though he knows it’s probably a dumb move.

“Ooh, do you now?” Clay snorts. “Is that why you couldn’t shoot me?”

George just stares at Clay desperately.

“Don’t give me that look. My guy will be here soon and everything will be okay.” Clay says gently. He leans across the table and takes George’s face in his hands. Tenderly, he strokes his thumb along George’s cheek.

“What are you doing?” George’s voice hitches. He feels frozen, stuck between pulling away and leaning into Clay’s touch. Cold dread soaks him to his core 

when Clay invades his space.

“I’m sorry it had to come to this.” Clay whispers and gently presses their lips together. He looks down at where George’s bloodied hands press against Nick’s torso. 

“Why?” George cries pathetically. “You didn’t have to shoot him.”

“Nick has been a good friend of mine for years, George.” Clay sighs. “I wouldn’t have shot him if I didn’t have to. But he’s dangerous.”

“You’re dangerous.” George pulls in a shuddering breath. It feels sharp in his lungs. 

“Maybe I am.” Clay admits. “But that doesn’t mean he isn’t.”

George’s phone buzzes on the table. A message from Wilbur pops up on his lock screen, asking him if he’d want to meet up again when he gets back to England. Defeat comes over George, because he knows that the day will never come. 

Slowly and purposefully, Clay picks George’s phone off the table and throws it on the floor. “I’m sorry for this.” Clay says and crushes George’s phone under his boot, until it’s nothing more than iPhone guts and shards of glass. 

Clay looks him in the eye, and George knows that there is no escape for him anymore. Perhaps there never was.

—

The man that shows up is short and frail. He’s also older than George had expected, maybe in his early forties. He looks like the image of death: a sickly parlor and ashen skin. Clay greets him curtly, with a clap on the back and mutterings about blood.

“George, this is Sam.” Clay tells him, gesturing to the man at his side. 

“Nice to meet you.” Sam grumbles. 

George swallows and nods. He couldn’t give a shit about formalities. Not when hands are covered in blood. 

Sam sets down his duffel bag on one of the dining room chairs and unzips it. He begins to take out various metal tools that look pointy and dangerous. George recognizes one of them as being forceps and tries not to think about Nick’s wound being archaically pried open.

“Are you a doctor?” George asks meekly. 

“War vet.” Sam replies. “I was a field medic.”

“Oh.” George says flatly. “Why are you here?”

“Gotta pay the bills somehow.” Sam answers cryptically. 

Wordlessly, Sam cuts Nick’s t-shirt away from the wound. The wound is deep, angry, and bloody, the bullet buried so deep that George can’t even see it. Thick rivulets of blood dance across Nick’s rib cage, streaming from the crater of an injury. It’s black and purple and dark red, it’s vaguely horrifying to know that he’s looking _inside_ of Nick. 

George pointedly averts his eyes and swims in the guilt of knowing this is his fault.

Clay settles down in the chair besides where Sam is working. “What blood type are you?” 

“I’m type O, I think?” 

“You’ll need to give blood.”

“What, no?” 

“You’re being greedy. I would give, but I’m not type O and I don’t know what type Nick is.” Clay says. “He _needs_ your blood.”

George stares down at the wound and chews on his lip. “Fine.”

“You want some Valium?” Sam offers. “You seem kind of shaky. It’ll take the edge off.”

“I don’t do drugs.” George says curtly. “Just fucking take my blood.”

“Whatever, dude.” Sam says. He takes a few more items out of his bag and sets them on a table. 

George’s mind is blank with suppressed terror, but he distantly registers the needle going into the crook of his elbow and the IV bag in his lap filling with blood. 

He focuses on the clear vial set on the table. 

“What’s that?” George blurts out. 

“Morphine.” Sam sighs. “It won’t numb all of the pain, but it’s all I got.”

“Then give Nick extra.” Clay nearly growls. “I don’t want this to hurt for him.” 

“He’ll overdose. This shit is addictive as fuck. I wouldn’t give him any if I could.” Carefully, Sam sucks the clear liquid from the vial up with a syringe. He taps at it briefly before plunging it into Nick’s arm. 

The rest fades into a blur. Sam wears latex gloves and jabs metal tools—still wet with antiseptic—into Nick’s wound. George watches, transfixed, as his still warm blood enters Nick’s body. 

At some point Nick’s cries fade into heavy breathing. George wonders if he’s gone into shock. 

When George returns to his body, Sam is putting vials and syringes into a gallon size plastic bag. Scrawled messily on the front in thick sharpie are vague instructions.

“Ten thousand dollars. I’ll wire it to you.” Clay holds out his hand expectantly. “Is that enough drug money for you?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Sam snarks, but shakes Clay’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Don’t shoot up heroin on my fucking property again.” 

“Fuck you.” Sam sneers. 

—

“Fucking junkie.” Clay mutters, once Sam is long gone. His expression twists into something darker. “Will do anything for money.” 

George stares at his feet and tries to convince himself that nothing is real.

“Come here.” Clay says and grabs George by the waist. 

George is too tired to fight. Clay manhandles George into his lap so that they’re facing each other. George lets his head rest in the crook of Clay’s neck and wonders if maybe this is how he’ll die: in the arms of his lover with his best friend doped up on the table. It feels so surreal that it’s almost poetic. In a dark and twisted way that isn’t really poetic at all.

Clay presses something cold and familiar into George’s palm. George instinctively grips it and runs the pad of his thumb over the safety. 

“It’s just us now.” Clay kisses George squarely on the lips sweetly. “You and me. The way it should be.”

“What are you doing?” George’s heart stutters unpleasantly when Clay’s hand locks around his pale wrist.

“Shoot me.” Clay says softly, and presses the pistol against his own forehead. “I shot Nick. It’s only fair. An eye for an eye, right?”

“It’ll kill you.” George protests weakly. 

“Shoot me.”

“I can’t.” George bites his lip until he breaks the skin. He hates that he let himself get this deep. The signs were there all along, and he still let this happen.

“I won’t be mad. Do it. Show me what you’re made of, George.” Clay rasps. _“Do it.”_

George sobs in frustration and lets his arm go limp. The gun flops into his lap and he hates it with every fiber of his being. He’s angry to his bones and yet he still feels helpless. 

_“I can’t.”_ George chokes out. “Fuck you.”

“That’s how I know you still love me.” Clay smiles and presses his lips to George’s forehead. It’s carnal despite the action being rather tame.

George gingerly runs his fingers along the edge of the bandages which twist around Nick’s chest. It makes him want to cry.

“I love you, too.” Clay says against George’s scalp, in a way that is sickly romantic.

Words that would’ve once made him swoon and blush feel like a slap. But at the same time, it makes George yearn for when things were okay. Nostalgia for something that was never there.

To the sound of Nick’s labored breathing and the light pitter-patter of drizzling rain, George comes to a realization. Maybe it’s something he’s always known, invasive thoughts taking shape into something unmistakable.

_He has to get out._

—

George is on his own. Not in the sense of solitude, but rather that everything important is resting on his shoulders, and his alone. It’s a precipice of desolation isolated within himself, paranoia writhing just beneath his skin.

George tries to pretend that everything is okay. He cooks breakfast in the mornings, and lets Clay melt into him beneath the sheets. He injects Nick with morphine and doesn’t let himself cry. 

He needs to buy time. But it’s hard. With Clay always watching and Nick recovering and mostly bedridden from a gunshot wound. He has no phone and neither does Nick. He has his laptop, but he and Nick still know better than to try anything under Clay’s roof.

“Nick, we need to get out.” George whispers to Nick, needle poised just above his flesh. Grotesque bruises still mar the paleness of Nick’s skin. A canvas clouded with agony and remorse.

Nick looks up at George from where he lays. His gaze is weary and worn. “I know.” He replies solemnly. 

“I don’t know what to do.” George mumbles and carefully presses down on the plunger of the syringe. 

Instantaneously, the lines of discomfort on Nick’s face smooth out, and he looks impossibly young. George knows that morphine works fast, but not _that_ fast. It’s distinctively poignant, to watch addiction take hold. It burns, because George knows it’s all his fault. 

“I’m becoming an addict, George.” Nick says quietly.

“You’re not.” George insists, even though he knows it’s untrue. Addiction isn’t something loud and obvious, but insidious and looming. Fate would be too kind to spare Nick.

“You’re a bad liar.” Nick smiles sadly. “Sometimes I can’t even tell if it hurts anymore, or if my brain is making it up.”

“You were _shot.”_

Nick shrugs slightly. “I don’t know, dude. Yeah I was shot, but I definitely shouldn’t still need fucking morphine weeks later.”

“We’ll figure it out.” George promises.

“Yeah.”

“I miss my family. I miss my pets.” George says in a hushed voice. “I miss so much about my life before all this happened.”

“You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you?” 

“Over three months.” George says bitterly, emptiness is all he knows lately. “I’ve wasted so much time, but I can’t ever seem to leave.”

Nick doesn’t answer, but squeezes George’s hand, gaze distant and forlorn.

—

George wishes he was swiftly clever like Clay, or daring like Nick. But he’s just himself. George is careful and thoughtful and loyal to a fault, but that won’t help him escape. 

There are many avenues that he could escape by, and there are choices he could make that are selfish. He could run off in the middle of the night, leaving Nick to the wolves. He could shoot Clay in his sleep. 

But neither of those plans would work. He _can’t_ leave Nick. It’s his fault that Nick is here in the first place, and it’s his job to get Nick out of this mess. 

But there’s a much larger problem than just that: he still loves Clay. He loves Clay so much it hurts, and loves him even more when it hurts. Pain is endemic to their love but George can’t save himself. Perhaps he is an addict, too. 

The plan George settles on isn’t a great one. But it’s his only choice. He can’t leave. It’s either him or Nick that will suffer, and George knows it has to be him that carries the burden. 

If there’s anyone he cares about more than Clay, it’s Nick. George will do anything if it means that maybe Nick will be happy again.

—

“You have to be the one that gets out of this, Nick.” George says hurriedly when he pulls Nick into the audio dead spot by the stove. “It’s you or me.”

Nick glances nervously at the camera, even though they’re out of its view. “What are you saying?”

“I think I can get you out.” George says hurriedly. “I’ve given it some thought, and I have an idea.”

“Dude, how? No offense, but you’re built like a scarecrow. I was shot and I still look better than you.”

“Not the time.” George clasps Nick’s shoulder. “You need to trust me.”

“What about you? I’m not leaving without you, George.” Nick replies in a fierce whisper. “You can’t live like this, with _him.”_

“I’ll be okay.” George tries to smile, but it feels strained. “Clay won’t do anything to me.” 

“You only say anything because he hasn’t hurt you yet. What about the day when you’re the one he shoots?”

“He won’t hurt me. Just let me help you get out, okay? It’s my responsibility to get you out. You’re still in college, you can’t stay here forever.” 

“You have a life, too.” Nick protests. “I’m not going to leave you.”

“You have to.” George swallows around a lump of emotion. “You’re not healing as quickly as you should be, and I can’t keep giving you morphine forever. You’re too young for this shit.”

At some point, George began to see Nick as a younger brother. A strange flame of protectiveness licks at the sides of his heart. 

“I hate how stubborn you are.” Nick sighs. “If I get out, you have to let me help you.”

“You don’t understand, you can’t.” George pleads. “Clay is dangerous. You need to run as far as you can and never look back again, okay?”

“What the fuck? No, absolutely not.” 

“Clay shot you once already, I can’t promise his next one won’t kill you.” George’s voice is thick with emotion. “I’ll be okay. I’ll figure something out. Just promise me that you’ll get as far away as you can.”

“God, you’re the worst.” Nick sniffles and pulls George into a bone-crushing hug. 

George closes his eyes and tries to commit the feeling to memory. He’s not sure if he’ll ever know such warmth again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a tumblr! Idk how to use it yet but come say hi :) my @ is porpolsunsets I have a picture of Niki as my pfp! 
> 
> There’s something I’d like to address. I recently saw a tweet criticizing those that “ship” dnf with their real names and not with their persona names. For a while, I found it very cringe to see stuff like “Dream stares into George’s orbs, while Sapnap watches pensively,” because if you’re really close to someone idk if you’d still be using their screen name LOL. But then I read Heat Waves (iconic!!) and realized persona names can be used tastefully. I’m not sure if I should start using their persona names. I know that as a writer in this fandom I have a responsibility to write about them in a respectful manner. I also know that Dream has said that he doesn’t care about fanfiction, but does Clay? I don’t know, it’s a difficult distinction to make, since my writing isn’t centered on SMP lore but rather real life. I write about sensitive content, veering on disturbing at times, and I’d like to continue to do so. I just don’t know if I need to start doing certain things differently, such as by making this work available only to ao3 users or starting to use their screen names. Let me know what you guys think :)
> 
> On a happier note, I’m so grateful that I’m able to write about our block men with such wonderful, heartfelt support. I still need to respond to comments on ch6, but trust me, I read every one of them. Thank you so much. <333


	8. The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t want to spoil anything, but I really need to heavily emphasize the fact that this chapter contains a lot of triggering content
> 
> tw// blood, self-harm, suicide, psychotic episodes, hallucinations, delusions, bugs (?)
> 
> I sincerely hope I covered everything. If any of these topics are triggering for you please do not read!

“What the hell am I doing?” George mutters to himself as he creeps down the basement stairs. Each one creaks as he steps onto it, but he supposes that it wouldn’t matter if he gets caught in the end. Nothing would. 

The basement is unfinished, with wooden beams and harsh lighting. It is both musty and damp in a way that clings to George’s skin and makes him feel dirty. The tools he stole from Clay’s shed feel heavy in his pocket, weighted with the guilt for something he has yet to do.

In the darkest corner of the room, the fuse box is attached to the wall. George opens the box and stares at the little switches with disdain. He wishes that there was an easier way. But there isn’t. Clay’s security system is better than it ever was. George can almost fool himself into thinking it’s romantic, the lengths to which Clay will go just to keep him near. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, George flips the switch to the main power breaker, cutting off all electricity to the house. He holds his breath for a moment as he stands in darkness, but by some stroke of luck, he doesn’t hear the sound of the generator turn on. 

George knows that it won’t be enough to just flip a switch. He removes the hammer from his pocket and slides the thin part of it beneath the cover of the fuse box. He wiggles the tool along the seams until the front of the box falls to the floor with a metallic clang. Dozens of wires twist and tangle together in a sea of colorful spaghetti. In the darkness, he can barely see as he violently tears at the wires with his bare hands, wire cutters forgotten on the ground by his feet. He doesn’t know much about electrical shit, but he knows that there’s no way in hell the power would still work after this. 

He checks the time on his watch. It’s just past midnight, so Clay shouldn’t be back for another few hours, but George still feels uneasy. He wonders what Clay would do to him if he got caught. For some reason the idea of Clay slowly strangling him to death seems almost attractive compared to never seeing Clay again. He wonders if it’s bad that he feels that way.

When George emerges from the basement, Nick is standing by the front door, two backpacks by his feet, hastily stuffed with a meager amount of clothes and food.

“You ready?” Nick glances toward the door anxiously.

“I guess. I didn’t think I’d get this far in the first place.” George chews his lip. “Come on, I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes, we have some walking to do.”

—

The distance to town feels endless, even though George knows it’s just five miles. But he’s tired and weakened from days on end of not sleeping or eating enough, his backpack growing heavier with every step. Nick isn’t faring much better: breathing heavily and clutching his side. It’s been weeks since Nick was shot, and George feels his stomach churn when he thinks about how much it must have hurt in the moment to get shot if it still hurts now. 

Nick is shaking and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looks like the picture of death: skin ashen and pale.

“Just a bit further. Come on.” George says and squeezes Nick’s hand reassuringly. 

Nick manages a small smile, but his gaze is empty. “A bit further.” He echoes hollowly. 

They cling to the shadows of the trees and stumble along the road. Eventually, the dim lights of a gas station come into view, the first sign of civilization they’ve seen during their entire journey thus far. 

“I’ll go see if they have a pay phone or something in there.” Nick says, gesturing at the small convenience store. 

“Are you going to call your aunt?” George feels like he’s missing something important. That there’s someone he should talk to. He tries to think back to the conversation he had with Nick the day before, but all he draws are blanks.

“Yeah. She lives up in Georgia, so she might be able to help us.” 

“You’re not calling the police.” George says. It’s not a question.

“I’m not.” Nick answers bitterly. “The fuck are they going to do? We have no concrete evidence of anything, and you know how fucking chummy-chummy Clay is with the cops around here.”

“Yeah.” George sighs defeatedly. He thinks of the few times he’s been in town with Clay, and the friendly greetings Clay would exchange with the officers. It would be a lost cause.

“Do you want to come with me?” Nick offers. 

“No, it’s alright. I’ll just wait out here.” George replies, and sits down on the curb. He knows it’s probably not smart to be alone, but he’s tired and doesn’t care.

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back, okay?” Nick promises. 

George lets his eyes close and takes a deep breath. The air is dewy with the first whispers of the Floridian winter. The last cicadas of the season sing from the trees and it sounds like they’re calling his name. 

A gust of wind passes by and rustles the trees, some of the last leaves of autumn cascade to the ground. Even after the wind passes, the rustling continues. George decides that it’s probably just an animal. Suddenly, he hears the crunching of leaves directly behind him and staggers to his feet. Before he can turn around, the coolness of a knife is slotted beneath his chin. A hand clamps over his mouth before he can scream.

“You really thought I wouldn’t find you?” Clay laughs breathily in his ear, chest rumbling against his back.

George’s breath hitches as he feels the blade start to barely break the skin.

“Answer me, George.” Clay snarls, hand moving down from George’s mouth to span the column of his throat.

“How did you find out?” George struggles to say, choking around the tar-black fear in his chest and the growing pressure on his windpipe. 

“I’m always watching you. Don’t you get that by now?” Clay smirks. 

_ “Please, _ just let me go.” George gags around a sob.

“I’m doing this because I love you.” Clay answers fiercely. “You’re so fucking ungrateful. Don’t you realize how much I’ve done for you?”

“I’m sorry.” George tries to say. He glances nervously at the door to the shop, praying that Nick doesn’t come back. 

“I gave you a career. I gave you my friendship.  _ I gave you my heart.  _ And after all that, you have the nerve to repay me by betraying my trust. Do you even love me?” Clay scoffs and begins to slice the blade across George’s neck. George can tell that the cut is shallow, and feels his heart warm at the thought of how careful Clay is being with him, even after all George has done to hurt him.

“I do.” George insists. “I love you, Clay. Please, stop. I love you.”

“Prove it to me.”

George swallows and places his hand on Clay’s, pushing the knife harder against his neck. “I love you.” He says desperately and feels even more blood stream down his neck, catching on his collarbones. 

“I know.” Clay says tenderly, rubbing a bloodied thumb along the crest of George’s cheek. “But I’m mad, George, you have to understand that.”

“I’m sorry.” George repeats. His neck feels wet with both blood and tears.

“I didn’t want to hurt you. But look at what you made me do.” Clay holds the knife in front of his eyes, red dripping down the blade to its handle. “You see this?  _ Your fault. _ ”

“I’m sorry.” George sobs even harder. 

“Stop fucking crying. You have  _ no right  _ to cry!” Clay barks and shoves George onto the ground, his head hitting the concrete with a smack. “You’re the one who left!” 

“Please, I’m sorry.” George says for what feels like the hundredth time. “Just don’t hurt Nick,  _ please.” _

This makes Clay falter. “What do you mean?” He takes his gun out of his holster and repeatedly flips the safety on and off. George immediately recognizes it as one of his nervous habits.

“It was all my fault. Just please don’t hurt Nick.” George pleads.

“George.” Clay says softly, eyes sympathetic. “What are you talking about?”

_ “What?”  _

“He’s dead. Nick  _ has been _ dead for a while.” Clay crouches down to face George and sets his gun besides his feet.

“He’s not.” George insists, and scrambles away from Clay. “I was just talking to him.”

“He died when I shot him. You don’t remember?” Clay frowns, getting to his feet. “Are you okay?”

“But that medic guy came and fixed him.” George protests and grabs Clay’s arm, nails digging into the flesh. “He fixed him.” 

“You’re talking crazy right now.” Clay laughs uncomfortably and shakes George off. 

“He’s alive. You’re just trying to confuse me.” George insists. He  _ knows _ that Clay is playing mind games on him. “He’s not dead.” 

“What the hell is wrong with you?“ Clay asks, sounding almost scared. “Why the fuck would I be lying about this? I killed my best friend for you, George. You saw it with your own eyes.”

“No, he’s alive.” George stumbles away from Clay and further into the gas station lot. “He’s inside.”

Clay watches somberly from a distance as George approaches the door. Something seems off about it all but George can’t place it. Sirens scream at him in the back of his mind, but he ignores them and reaches for the handle.

The door doesn’t budge. 

“George, this place has been closed for years.” Clay says calmly, though he sounds regretful. 

And then George sees it: the parking lot overgrown with weeds, the cracked pavement, the dark and empty store. 

“No!” George wails. “It was right here.  _ He was right here.” _

Clay’s fingers are slick with a thick dark liquid and his gun is missing from its holster.

“George.” He whispers, knife falling to the ground.

“Get away from me.” George sobs as he presses his back against the wall.

“I’m sorry.” Clay says softly, and grips George’s collar with a white knuckled grip.

“Shut up!” George screams. 

“Calm down.” Clay says as George thrashes in his hold. “Breathe. You’re okay.”

“He’s alive.” George grits out before promptly throwing up onto his shoes. 

Clay rubs his back while he heaves, but doesn’t say anything. His mouth is set in a thin line, revealing no emotion.

“Come on, let’s go home.” Clay presses a tender kiss to George’s forehead before hefting George into his arms. “You’re going to be okay, George.”

“Nick’s alive.” George whispers against Clay’s neck. Because maybe if he says it enough it’ll be true. 

Clay sets him in the passenger seat of the car and then gets in himself. He’s silent the entire ride. George stares at his faint reflection in the car window and wonders if he’s even real. 

“If I show you, will you believe me?” Clay says once they’re in the door. 

“Show me what?”

“The body. I can show it to you if that will help you understand.” Clay answers cruelly. 

And that’s how George knows that Clay is telling the truth. 

“You’re lying.” George hisses.

“Christ, you’re fucked in the head.” Clay grabs George by the shoulders and looks him dead in the eye.  _ “Nick is dead.” _

George pushes past Clay and rushes down the hallway to Nick’s room. Maybe Nick made it back on his own. He pushes open the door and expects to see Nick’s usual state of chaos: bed unmade, clothes on the floor, half-empty bottles of water on the nightstand. 

Instead the bed is stripped bare and the room is empty. 

—

George wakes up to bright lights and a throbbing headache. Slowly, his memory starts to come back, each image of the day prior more painful than the last. He wonders briefly, if Nick is really dead, then how does he know if any of this is real? The conclusion he comes to is frightening:  _ he doesn’t. _ Conversely, if nothing is real, then is Nick really dead? It’s paradoxical and makes his brain hurt even more.

“Are you awake, baby? Clay mumbles against his hair. 

“Is this real?” George mutters deliriously.

“It’s real.” Clay massages his scalp with the pads of his fingers. “I’m real.”

“Then, how’s the power on? I ruined the fuse box.” George feels hysterical laughter crowd the spaces between his ribs. Nothing makes sense.  _ Why doesn’t anything make sense? _

“The electrician came this morning while you were sleeping.” Clay snorts as though this is something amusing. “You really did a number on those wires. I wish you could’ve seen the look on his face when I told him Patches did that.” 

George barely hears Clay. He stares at the ceiling and tries to discern if this is real. He feels like he’s floating and grips Clay’s hand like a vice. 

“You okay, baby?” Clay asks gently. “You look like you’re in another dimension.”

“The bugs. I can feel them.” George murmurs. He feels lost inside his own mind. 

“Bugs?”

“I can feel them.” George repeats. And he does. He can feel thousands of maggot-like creatures crawling beneath his skin. He can’t see them but he knows that they exist.

“You had a rough day. Sit tight, and I’ll make us some breakfast. You’ll feel better.”

“Okay.” George answers, though he isn’t sure what he’s agreeing to. Clay’s words echo in his mind, but they don’t make sense.  _ Nothing makes sense. _

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back, okay?” Clay says, but he wears Nick’s face. That’s what Nick said last night. Will Clay disappear too now? 

Clay leaves the room and time becomes fluid. It feels like years have passed and Clay still hasn’t returned. George wonders if he’s ever coming back. 

“I’m not real either.” Insidious fragments of realization curl around George’s heart and poke his lungs. But the thought is almost amusing. Nothing can hurt him anymore. He’s not real.

His knife is on the dresser, where it always is. He holds it up to the light and admires its sharpness. At one point, George cherished it. It was a gift from Clay, a token of his love. But it’s not real. Even this cannot hurt him. 

Slowly and deliberately, he moves the blade so that it is poised above his wrist. He can feel the bugs press up against his skin at the opportunity to escape. Nothing makes sense. 

Very carefully, he slices an even line across the space where his arm meets his hand. Blood beads at the seam of the wound and it’s mesmerizing. George presses the knife against his wrist again. It doesn’t even hurt. He watches transfixed as both blood and maggots fall to the ground, mingling in the thick dark rivulets that stream down his forearm. He wonders if this makes him real. 

The bugs continue to fall and George realizes that he  _ needs  _ to get them out. His blood is red and sticky against his hands, but it means that he’s real. Real boys are filled with blood, not maggots. 

Hundreds of bugs scurry across the floor and up the walls, every pair of beady eyes watching him. 

George plunges the blade deeper into his wrist, but it doesn’t hurt, so he must’ve avoided all the important shit. The knife is covered with blood and slips from his grip when he tries to cut the other wrist. 

He feels himself sink to the floor. He curls in on himself and tries to become as small as possible, but he can feel the bugs crawling along his skin and into his mouth. They congregate in his lungs but George is too tired to get them out again. 

George rests his head on the floor in a puddle of bugs and his own cooling blood. He struggles to keep his eyes open, but he feels like he’s sinking. There are too many bugs, and if he’s not even real, then what’s the point?

Distantly, he feels hands on his face and thinks that he hears his name. It feels nice. He’s cold and weary and just wants to be held. Colors warp behind his eyelids dizzyingly. He opens his mouth to speak but the words get stuck in his chest.

Clay’s name lingers on his tongue, but it’s too late. 

—

Clay goes live the next day. He grins widely at the camera. He’s charismatic and sickeningly charming, Sweet bitter words fall from his lips—unhinged in the most exquisite way.

The chat floods with confusion and shock. Not for the fact of this being a face reveal, but because Clay’s voice is attached to a man with crazed eyes and hair matted with blood.

“You guys keep asking me, tweeting me, wondering where George is.” Clay laughs manically at the camera, crocodile tears streaming down his cheeks and sorrow on his tongue. 

He carelessly brandishes his gun to the stream, black metal shining before the pale glow of his screen. 

“I’ll tell you guys a secret.” Clay whispers raggedly and leans close to the screen.  _ “I killed him.”  _

The video cuts to black, perhaps unintentionally, but not before thousands of people hear the unmistakable sound of a bullet going through Clay’s skull. 

After, there is only silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! That was a doozy. Can we get some pogs in the chat for a completed fic! Originally, they didn’t all die. That’s why major character death wasn’t tagged until now :)
> 
> If you’ve experienced anything like the part about the bugs, please try to seek professional help! That shits not normal (I’m saying this as someone who has experienced it before LMAO) Also please make sure to sleep, you can hallucinate if you don’t for long enough :p 
> 
> I’m sorry for the delay on this chapter. As much as I’d love to be a full time ao3 writer, I sadly have to do college shit (boo!) 
> 
> I hope this chapter was what you had hoped for and maybe left you feeling empty muahahaha :)
> 
> I’ll probably focus on writing a bit more fluff for the foreseeable future, so stay on the lookout for that! But for my angst lovers, you will definitely be seeing more of that from me ;) 
> 
> There’s so much I still want to say, but I’ll finish with this: From the bottom of my heart, thank you to everyone who has supported me in the writing of this fic. I’m grateful for everything comment, kudos, and bookmark I review. I’m pretty slow in responding to comments, but I promise I read every single one. It means so much to me that someone would enjoy my writing. Thank you so much for pushing me to better myself as a writer. I love you all <3
> 
> Also! I couldn’t figure out tumblr so now I have a Twitter: @porpolsunsets come say hi!
> 
> https://uquiz.com/quiz/L5pk8k?p=847285 (in case u want to know which character you are!)


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